


lanterns burning, flickered in the mind (only you)

by bloodgutsandstarbucks



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Declarations Of Love, Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn, Snark, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 89,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25239994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodgutsandstarbucks/pseuds/bloodgutsandstarbucks
Summary: Peter and Tony have been enemies since freshman year.Through a stroke of deep misfortune, they get paired together for an assignment in which they must try to survive as a couple.Peter prays that it wont end in murder.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 236
Kudos: 344





	1. Chapter 1

Peter’s day started like most others. 

The nearby screech of his alarm startles him into the waking world. Without opening his eyes, he fumbles against his bedside table to grab his phone, smacking himself in the face in his haste to silence it.

It’s always a Herculean effort to get up before the sun does, and today is no different. Squinting against the grey morning light, Peter contemplates simply closing his eyes and going back to sleep. The thought is tempting, the pull of sleep still in his limbs. 

Instead, he resigns himself to the day and slips out of bed, reaching for his glasses and propping them on his face.

Through finger-smudged lenses his phone say’s five-thirty-four, which in itself is an affront, but he’s comforted that it’s a Friday and respite isn’t far off. This weekend will be spent sleeping, playing video games and eating cinnamon poptarts until he succumbs to a blissful food coma.

He can’t freakin’ wait. 

Hearing his aunt rouse the room over, Peter gathers his clothes and hurries to the shower. The November chill bites as his bare feet touch the floor and he shivers, cursing the lack of heating in his apartment. It’s positively freezing. 

The hot water is nice while he showers, but it’s much worse when he gets out, still wet as he tiptoes back to his bedroom. Fruitlessly, he bangs the old iron radiator in the hall with his fist as he passes it, because it does little more than encourage a groan from the ancient equipment.

Back in his bedroom, Peter hums as slips on his sweats and sneakers and readies himself for the day against the tune of an awakening neighborhood, spraying himself with probably too much deodorant in the process. 

Finished, Peter puts his glasses back on and in the window he inspects his reflection. He smiles. 

It’s Friday.

It’s gonna be a great day.

\----

To no-ones shock but his own, his affirmation was proving to be accurate.

So far, Peter actually _was_ having a great day.

Because it was late November but the sun was shining so splendidly that it quickly froze the frost from the windows. A small miracle occurred when he found a scrunched twenty dollar note stashed in the pocket of his jacket - and with it he treated himself up a packet of Lays, a red bull and a sandwich from Delmars

And for once, he wasn’t late to training.

For the early hour that he arrives, the school is near empty, save for the male locker room which is slowly teeming with a slow drip of weary-eyed boys. Yawning, Peter dumps his backpack and retrieves his mouthguard, sharing commiserative glances with his zombie-eyed teammates. It’s truly an ungodly hour to be at school.

But, despite his drowsiness, Peter doesn’t mind the early mornings so much, probably more accustomed to it than the rest. It sucks, but he’s happy to get the training out of the way -- it makes time for after school priorities like Robotics and chess club. 

He slaps Barnes’ on the back when they file out, jogging to get ahead. Like his heater, his friend groans in response.

Coach Danvers is already there when they arrive, her arms crossed over her chest. Peter approaches the field with a growing sense of weariness, augmented by the flat line her mouth forms as they near.

Once the team is assembled, Coach clears her throat loudly for their attention.

“Look alive, boys,” she raises her voice. “Good morning. I’d like you to welcome back Wilson and Rogers, who, as you may recall, were suspended from training for three weeks.”

Suspended completely from school grounds was more accurate, Peter thinks, clapping along as cheers erupt around him, the remarks are met with fervent enthusiasm for their return. Someone whistles and he looks to the source, spotting the two boys in question in receipt of fist-bumps and back-slaps from the team.

Rogers and Wilson rarely did anything in isolation of one another. They were attached at the hip. It was probably the reason that they were both involved in a fist-fight with a couple of other juniors a few weeks prior. 

Peter’s happy to see them back. They’re great guys, have always been good to him. And whilst he steadfastly abhors needless violence, Peter finds himself in a grey area to judge the circumstances. He wasn’t there, doesn’t know what the fight was about. What he does know is that they were both damn lucky they weren’t kicked off the team.

It’s probably because the board knows they wouldn’t win another game without them. 

Lucky for the team.

“Enough,” Coach snaps. “We play Kingston next week, six days! You look like you want to play hopscotch instead of football. Do you want to play hopscotch?”

“No, coach,” the team settles, echoing in unison. Danvers slowly circles the group, eyeing each of them down as they fall into line. Peter keeps his gaze fixed to the goal posts on the near horizon to avoid her furious gaze.

“Doesn’t look like it. Are you sure?”

“Yes, coach!”

“Well, color me shocked. Maybe you want to hold hands and paint each others fingernails? Well, guess what, boys - I do not care what you want. What I want -- and what _you_ should want -- is to not give Principal Fury a reason why we’ve lost another match. So _you_ ,” she points at Rogers, “and _all_ of you juvenile delinquents,” she gestures to the crowd, “keep the violence to the field. Am I clear?”

“Yes, coach!”

“Great,” she brings her whistle to her mouth. “Gassers until I say stop or until you pass out, starting now. Move!”

Her whistle sounds sharply and, at faced with the fury of her stare, the team scatters across the field.

No one more so than Peter, who flees to the hard edge of the field at her command and commences running, feeling every chomp of the frigid, late fall air in his chest.

Coach Danvers was a hardass. But if anyone could convince Fury to not kick two of their best players off the team, it was her.

Peter had well well and truly worked up a sweat by the time the whistle was blown again and the team was split into three to run drills.

He was wishing he hadn’t eaten the whole sandwich from earlier when Quill rams his shoulder into his stomach for the third time, bile rising in his throat. He powers through it but by the time coach blows her whistle again to switch to the next drill, he’s feeling green, sunburnt and sweaty.

Which wouldn’t be so bad, if a small crowd of students hadn’t rocked up early, relaxing on the bleachers to watch the training.

Amongst them were a group of juniors who were smoking and laughing to themselves. They gave Peter the finger when he ran past, but he ignored them. 

“You suck, Parker!” 

The colour commentary from this particular group wasn’t uncommon, but Peter didn’t care. He’d heard worse from Flash in middle school -- and they were good friends now.

Not that Peter wasn’t paying attention. Because also perched upon the steps was a group of seniors, specifically, a fair-haired boy that made Peter’s heart do funny things in his chest. 

As Peter ran his laps, the aforementioned boy descended the stairs. He leans across the fencing separating the seats and the field and smiles at Peter when he looks over.

Peter would blush, were his face not already pink with exertion.

The boy’s name is _Thor_.

Well, that’s what his friends call him. Peter isn’t actually sure of his full name but he does know that Thor is a senior and an exchange student from somewhere in Europe. 

Thor started at their school in September, qualified immediately for their varsity team and is a super sweet guy. 

His locker gets stuck sometimes. It just takes elbow grease, but once, Thor noticed him struggling to open it and didn’t hesitate to hurry over to help. He had it opened in a matter of seconds and had smiled just like he did now. Peter has been smitten ever since. 

Any lingering doubts he’d had over the summer regarding his bisexuality were swiftly and resolutely confirmed as soon as he saw the older boy striding down the halls, a head taller than anyone else, smile a mile wide, accent like liquid gold.

He’s just so pretty. And _nice_. 

Feeling Thor’s eyes on him, self-consciousness creeps over Peter as he continues his laps. But he channels it, using the opportunity to prove himself, maybe impress the other boy, running faster despite the burn in his lungs and thighs. 

_Come on, Parker, keep going._

He looks over again. Every time he does Thor is looking at him - at Peter - and maybe it really is his lucky day. He keeps pushing himself to go faster, harder until his heart is throbbing in his ears. The next time he looks over though, Thor is lifting his sweater over his head. 

The action makes his undershirt ride up, revealing a tantalising strip of bare, hard skin.

Peter trips, hitting the ground hard.

_Motherfuck_.

There is immediate, raucous laughter by the bleachers as he groans and picks himself up, body protesting. He spits out grass on the ground, dazedly noticing the smoking kids, Stark and Rhodes, clapping at Peter’s performance.

Setting back into a jog as his face flames, Peter refuses to look over again to see if Thor noticed.

That would be just his luck.

\----

By first period a deep, purple bruise is blooming on his chin and knees. There’s a graze on his cheek from the fall and his jaw feels like it did when he first got braces in fifth grade, stiff as hell and sensitive to the touch.

Shuri laughs at him when he sits beside her.

“That bad?” Peter asks, flinching when she takes his jaw in hand to inspect the damage.

“It’s not like you can get any uglier,” she remarks, turning his head from side to side. “It’s fine, just maybe don’t smile at small children. What happened -- did you try to rescue another old woman?”

“No,” he sighs, pulling back, embarrassed. “I fell at training this morning and ate dirt. I got distracted.”

“That’s a first.”

His cheeks heat.

“Yeah, well.” He leans in closer to whisper, eyes darting around the room. “Thor was there. He said _hi_ to me.”

“That’s it? He said hi?”

“Well, kinda. He smiled at me. Like, he looked directly at me and _bam_ , blinded by the light. And then he did this thing with his shirt --”

Shuri’s eyes go wide but whatever she has to say is curbed by the arrival of their teacher. She pulls out her notebook and points at him with her pen. “New low,” she whispers. “What the fuck, PP.”

Peter shrugs.

Her disdain is evident and Peter can’t help but smile, even as it pulls his injuries.

His fortune again turns, receiving top marks for the last assignment and his teacher wasn’t even that mad when he was caught texting during class. Maybe it was the split lip or the sorry state of his nose that inspired pity from the faculty, but he wasn’t about to test his luck.

He clearly wasn’t going to get through to college through his prowess at football, so he pockets his phone, apologises sheepishly and sticks his head into his books.

Maybe he replays the moment in his head as he takes notes, filled with equal measures of shame and giddiness. At least May would be satisfied that his glasses were preserved from damage and wouldn’t have to buy a new pair.

By the time class ends, his face is well and truly throbbing. He winces when he yawns, prompting Shuri to roll her eyes at him as they head into the halls.

“You’re so embarrassing,” she says, knocking their hips together as they weave through students on their way to the bio labs.

“Pity me. I’m wounded.”

“Oh I pity you alright,” she says distractedly, nodding to the far end of the hall. “Hey, look. Stark and Rhodes are back from suspension.”

Peter looks over.

Stark is talking to some girl, leaning against the lockers while Rhodes tries to pull him away, presumably towards their next class. 

Peter shakes his head, recalling their antics that morning. “Yeah, I noticed. Stark should have been expelled. He started that fight.”

“Uhh, don’t even. Rogers threw the first punch,” Shuri reasons, waving to both boys as they pass. 

“Semantics.”

“That’s a big boy word.”

“I’m a big boy.”

Shuri pokes his grazed cheek.

“Sure you are.”

\----

The next few periods passed without a hitch. But the best part of all came during lunch.

It was Mac’n’Cheese day. The best day of the week -- well, the only day of the week that Peter can afford cafeteria food, if he was honest, but he sure made it count. 

Fortuitously, MJ had gotten there early enough to secure their group a table together and the lunch-lady that was sweet on Peter had given him an extra scoop of the gooey pasta, to his delight. Maybe it really was his lucky day, he thinks, taking a spot at the table.

That would be a first.

He’d been riding on the high of his morning, gracelessly shovelling the cheesy goodness into his gullet when _it_ happened.

“Don’t look now,” Natasha says to his left. “Wonderboy is coming through.”

Peter looks up at the exact moment Thor strides past their table, catching his eye. The other boy grins roguishly at him.

His teeth are _so_ white. 

“Hey there, Pete,” he waves, nodding to the rest of the table and moving on

“H-Hey, Thor,” he swallow roughly, waving back. “H-Hows it going?”

Thor already having moved on, doesn’t respond, and for the butterflies beating against his stomach, Peter doesn’t even care. He smiles down at his pasta, heart racing a mile a minute. Wow.

“ _Hey, Thor_ ,” Shuri imitates him. 

Peter swallows, ignoring her, cheeks going pink. “He knows my name. Oh my god. He knows my name.”

“Who cares, the whole school knows your name,” MJ says, without looking up from her textbook. 

Shuri points her fork at her in agreement. “Yes. Thor’s a meathead. You can do better.”

“No he can’t,” Ned disagrees. "Have you seen that guy? His biceps are like bowling balls.”

Bucky parks himself between Steve and Natasha, throwing an arm around them both. He puts on a high voice, fluttering his eyelashes. “Who, Thor? I heard he’s a model for Burberry.”

“I heard he does Adidas commercials in Norway,” Natasha adds.

“And he’s quarterback of the varsity team,” Flash finishes.

MJ blinks. 

“And?”

“He’s got a four-point-oh,” Peter says dreamily. 

He stops paying attention, eyes going unfocused as he imagines their next interaction. Maybe Thor will ask him out, god willing. He imagines Thor and himself graduating as Valedictorians in their respective years, throwing their caps high into the sky and embracing. Their classmates will clap as they kiss. Maybe they’ll then spend the summer in Thor’s hometown, wherever that is. Peter doesn’t know, but maybe it has rolling green hills, cute cobblestone roads and snow-capped mountains, maybe they’ll go on horse rides and picnics where Thor will surprise Peter and propose and --

Someone snorts behind Peter, shattering the illusion.

Peter turns in his chair to find one Tony Stark grinning wickedly, apparently eavesdropping.

“What,” he prompts, frowning when that elicits a wider smile from the other boy, his dark and unkempt hair falling across his forehead in front of his eyes.

“Nothin’,” Tony tucks his wayward strands behind his ear. “I mean, well. Just that you said he’s got a four-point-oh.”

“And?”

Tony shrugs. He holds his pinkie up to his face and wriggles it.

“And I dunno, Parker. Gotta say; You seen him in the showers? Four is a little generous, don’t you think? More like three.”

Peter stares.

Tony tilts his head, conceding.

“O- _kay_ , three and a half.”

Peter rolls his eyes. This guy is freaking bent.

“Well, that’s three and a half more that he’s got on you, Stark. Mind your own business.” he turns back around to the table. MJ, across from him, has her lips pursed in an attempt to hide her smile. 

“S’gotta be the steroids,” is what he hears Tony say to his friends before they start to snicker. “Seriously -- you seen that guys’ balls? No? Neither have I. Not for a lack of trying.”

Peter ignores him. 

Tony Stark is prickly. A smartass, although he’s rarely antagonistic -- unless it’s towards Peter and his team mates, of course. 

Peter doesn’t really get why. It doesn’t serve him to spend longer moments of musings on someone who clearly hates him, but thinks Steve and Tony used to be friends before falling out at some point, way before Peter came to the high school and joined the JV team. Like he does with everyone, Peter had tried to befriend Tony at first, but it quickly became clear that the other boy had no interest in making nice, sneering at every pleasantry and effort.

Before long, Peter’s extended hand of friendship became a clenched fist.

Rhodes and Potts, his friends, seem to be reasonable. Cordial that borders on unfriendly, sure, but reasonable. Tony, however, seems to get a kick out of the perpetual disharmony. 

Whatever, Peter scoops up the last of his pasta, chewing it with a pleased sigh. It doesn’t matter. Propping his chin on his hand, he replays the exchange with Thor over again in his mind, heart racing all over again.

This is the best day ever. 

Not even Tony Stark can bring him down today.

\----

Peter Parker wouldn’t consider himself a religious person or a believer in a higher power. He was scientific, clinical. Rarely did he attribute his fortunes -- or misfortunes as it were -- to anything other than deterministic chaos.

But there was something called Parker Luck, as his Aunt called it. Whilst evidence of it was purely anecdotal, it was a theory Peter believed in whole heartedly.

He might not have hard proof, but all the trends in his life end in the same answer.

Parker Luck. It’s a thing.

\----

Fortune, momentarily swings his way again during History. 

Mr Jacobs, their regular teacher with a stiff upper-lip, is off sick and the sub lets them have an independent study period, which is code for doing fuck all. 

He doesn’t have any friends in this class so he utilises the time finishing his math homework and doodling in his notebook. If he draws a few hearts with his own initials and those of a certain exchange student, then, well, that’s his business.

By the time he’s in Economics, his final class of the day, Peter is feeling pretty damn good.

He takes his usual seat in the back row next to Natasha, dropping his books on the table with a thud. The noise awakens Jake, the stoner guy, who sits on his other side. Peter offers him a smile as he takes his seat.

This should be good.

While Economics holds no special place in his heart, Miss Ahn is by far his favorite teacher. She’s young, late twenties, Peter thinks, and is one of the more approachable teachers in the faculty. She worked for some big deal accounting firm before she found her calling in teaching and has always been good to Peter.

She watches the kids as they file in and smiles at them as they take their seats. In her hand she’s holding a Met’s cap (another reason for Peter to adore her) which, upon inspection, to be full of folded pieces of paper.

When she has the attention of the room she greets the class and takes attendance. Curiously, nothing is said about the hat afterwards as she walks around the room, offering the hat to each student and allowing them to withdraw a single piece of paper.

Bewildered, Peter watches his peers and their increasing confusion as they open their pieces until it’s his turn.

He takes one out of her hat and opens it with uncertainly.

He unfolds it. It reads: _middle-school art teacher._

Peter frowns.

He peers over to Natasha, whose expression mirrors his own.

“Great, that’s everyone!” Miss Ahn nods and returns to the front of the room to lean back on her desk. A slow smile spreads on her face and Peter, for the first time in her classroom, feels dread creep up his spine.

“So,” she claps, “building on our discussion last week we were talking microeconomics versus macroeconomics, I mentioned an assignment. Who remembers?”

The class collectively groans.

“I know, I know, it’s a hard knock life. But, it’s not going to be that bad, i promise. You might find it fun. Mr Barnes, what does yours say?”

In front of Peter’s desk, he watches Bucky unfold his paper, pausing.

“...Personal trainer?”

“Great. And yours, Mr Wilson?”

In the second row, Sam frowns at his paper. “Therapist.”

Miss Ahn seems pleased, pointing at the two. “Congrats, you two are partners for the next week. You’re married, you have no children. But you holiday twice a year and have a mortgage.”

“I’m sorry,” Barnes glances between Wilson and their teacher. “We what?”

She addresses the class as a whole.

“You two, as you all are once you are partnered, are to prepare an annual budget for your fictional household. This is the microeconomics portion of the assignment.”

“Are you saying I’m fake-married to this clown?” Sam gestures with his thumb, displeasure written all over his face.

Peter snorts as their teacher nods.

“Right! Just for two weeks. I expect your budgets to be detailed, okay? I _strongly_ recommend extensive research into the respective fields you are assigned. Average salary, student loan forecast, the works. Figure out how much you owe and how much you earn. Rent! Bills! This is worth 40% of your semester grade. Do you love it?”

Peter looks back down at his paper, reading it again. The trepidation from earlier comes back as a pit in his stomach.

"Miss Potts, how about your paper?”

The girl grimaces.

“Divorce lawyer.”

“Great. And Mr Rhodes?”

“Colonel,” he reads, tilting his head as he considers his paper. “Cool.”

“Awesome. You two are estranged sweethearts, supporting three kids. You share equal alimony, rent separately, and are set to remarry. Natasha?”

Natasha blinks at her paper. “Executive Producer.”

His teacher hums, tapping her lips with her finger as she circles her desk. “Single. No kids.”

Natasha grins, all teeth.

“Mr Parker?”

Peter reads his paper aloud, smiling as his fingers shake, feeling each pair of eyes of his fellow students as they await his fate.

“And you, Mr Stark?

In the second row, closest to the door, Tony crumples his paper in his hand. The room is pervasively silent. Tony clears his throat, tossing the paper onto his desk with evident disdain.

“Stay-at-home-parent,” he reads, voice so quiet that Peter nearly misses it.

“Excellent. Okay then, you and Mr Parker are married ---”

Peter’s stomach drops. 

Oh no.

“-- you’ve just adopted a four year old. You two met at work, Mr Stark is taking time off to care for the child -- figure out your savings, salary, budget for a new family --”

Tony’s hand shoots up swiftly, his fingers waving in the air.

Peter follows suit, arm stretching high. No. This is -- no. 

“Miss Anh?” Tony interrupts, bouncing in his seat. “Yes, hi. Tony Stark, that’s me, the guy you just condemned. Just wondering, is it possible to switch partners?”

The teacher pauses, 

“No, it's not.”

Peter raises his hand higher. 

“Can you make an exception?” he asks, lowering his hand and looking between Tony and Miss Ahn uneasily. “I think that would be best.”

She places her hands on her hips.

“What’s the issue, boys?”

Before Peter can even open his mouth, the other boy cuts in.

“You see Miss A,” Tony interjects, hands pressed together in a fervent plea, eyes closing, as if in prayer. “Here’s the thing: I just can’t work with neanderthals. They bring down my grade average.”

“ _Anthony.”_

Miss Ahn frowns. The entire class turns in their seats to watch the exchange and Peter feels his face heat. 

“Well lucky for _him_ , I can’t work with underachieving eighties rejects whose parents pay for their grades.”

“Wow,” Stark gestures to their teacher, “you hear that Miss? You driving that ‘94 Volvo on my parents money? Gosh, I am so sorry. Let me get you an upgrade.”

He turns to Peter, face heating at the attention of the class.

“Shit, Parker,” he continues, gesturing to him. “You really are as dumb as rocks. I mean, don’t you ever get tired of perpetuating your own stereotype?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Do you ever get tired of being an insufferable asshole?”

Tony puts a hand on his chest. “Absolutely. It keeps me up at night.”

Peter huffs. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re loathsome.”

“Prick.”

“Princess.”

“Boys!” Miss Ahn cuts in, snapping her fingers, her expression positively thunderous. “I don’t know what has got into either of you, but that is _enough_.” She points to them both. “Unless you have a real, valid complaint, quit it. Right now. You’re going to work together on this assignment or you both of you will fail.”

Peter and Tony share a look. 

“Your choice,” she says, pointing at each of them. “Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Tony huffs, turning back to face the front of the room. 

Peter crosses his arms over his chest and nods.

“Great. Now, not a word from either of you for the remainder of this class. Scott, your turn.”

Peter fumes silently as Scott unfolds his paper and reads it aloud to the room.

“An entomologist!” He shifts excitedly in his seat, beaming widely. “Wow! _Wow_. Man, that’s so cool. I love Lord of The Rings.”

Miss Ahn sighs.

\---

“Stop laughing,” Peter hisses, leaning in closer to Natasha. “Shut up. It’s not funny.”

The redhead leans against Peter’s locker, hand clamped over her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You are not,” Peter grumbles, brushing her aside to get into his locker. It sticks when he pulls iy, like it always does, and Peter has to tug to get it open. “This is the worst day of my life. I’m cursed.”

“You’re not _cursed_.”

“Who’s cursed?”

Peter turns in time to see Bucky swoop in and embrace Natasha from behind.

“Me. I’m cursed. I gotta be, right? I mean, what reason would there be for me to be paired with Tony Stark? Am I not a good person? Have I not suffered enough?”

Natasha opens her mouth but Peter barrels on.

“And what does Tony _Stark_ know about managing money?” he continues, shoving notebooks haphazardly into his bag, despair increasing. “His dad owns a fleet of Ferraris and a private jet. He probably has a diamond encrusted butthole. The guy hates me -- I’m cursed.”

“Wow. You’re so dramatic.” She looks to Bucky. “Are you hearing this?”

Peter poins a finger at her.

“You’re just saying that because you’re going to be a successful single multi-billionaire or something. I have to be married to the stay-at-home dickwad.”

“Maybe you could teach him a thing or two.”

Peter scoffs, shoving textbooks into his backpack, weekend plans obliterated by the volume of homework he’s received.

“What, like how to not be an asshole?”

“Why are you so obsessed with his asshole?”

“Speaking of the devil,” Bucky cuts in quietly. “Your three o’clock.”

_The devil indeed_ , Peter thinks, zipping his bag and closing his locker. He turns just in time for a stony-faced Tony stride towards him.

“Stark,” he greets darkly.

“Parker. Do you prefer Parker or Princess?” Tony waves his hands dismissively. “Nevermind, I don’t care. So, this assignment? Here’s the thing --”

“Let me guess,” Peter interrupts, slinging the straps of his backpack onto his shoulder. “You’re too busy to complete your half? That’s fine, it’d be best if you let me write it. That way you might actually pass. Win, win.”

Tony looks at him, lips pursed. 

“Uh, no. _No_ , and then also, no. That’s an awful idea. What are you, like, a C average?”

“Actually, I’m --”

“I don’t actually care. Listen, as much as I would love to be as far away from you as possible --”

“-- Likewise --”

“ -- Miss A will know if we bullshit her. I know you’re intimately familiar with the experience, but she isn’t an idiot. She can spot your mediocre work a mile away.”

Peter folds his arms over his chest, glasses slipping down his nose.

“You’re not actually proposing we do this together, right,” he queries, pushing them back up. The ire from earlier continues to burn in his chest. “Can you even read?”

“Haha, oh my god, you’re like _so_ funny,” Tony runs a hand through his hair, voice going glib and high pitched. His expression goes serious. “Write your address in my phone. I’ll see you there at six.”

“Why at six?” Peter frowns, taking the phone when Tony waves it in his face. He begins typing in his address, pausing briefly to peer at the other boy. “And why _my_ apartment? Am I going to dirty up your mansion?”

“Penthouse, actually,” Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “And because I have better things to do this afternoon that isn’t aspirating on your sweat fumes.”

“You can aspirate on my ass,” he mumbles through his teeth as he resumes typing, chest going hot.

“Tempting, but no thanks. Are you done yet? You type slow. Do you know you type slow?”

“Shut up,” Peter rolls his eyes, locking the phone and returning it to its owner. “Don’t be late. I’m not joking, I’m not waiting around for you.”

“Sure thing, princess,” Tony pockets his phone, retrieving a cigarette from behind his ear and slipping it between his lips. “Don’t shoot on arrival.”

“No promises.”

It goes unheard, however. Tony has already turned and left, headphones secure over his ears. Annoyed, he turns back to his friends.

“That guy is the _worst_.”

If he was expecting sympathy or commiseration, which he was, he comes up short on both. Instead, met with Natasha whispering into her boyfriends ear as she casts him a suspicious side eye.

“What?” He pokes her in the arm. “What are you whispering about.”

Natasha shakes her head, poking him back. It hurts. 

“Nothing.”

Before he can retaliate, Bucky slings an arm each around Peter and his girlfriends shoulders, smiling easily at them. As a trio, they walk towards the exit, the hallway near empty, save for a few stragglers idling by the doors.

“Don’t worry, Pete. She was just sayin’ one of you will be dead by morning,” Bucky offers, squeezing his shoulder.

“Um, not me, right?” Peter asks, adjusting his glasses on his nose again. “I’m alive in this scenario?”

"No.”

“Hey!”

Bucky jostles his shoulder. “You saw the shiner he gave Rogers the other week. You already look like you fell into a blender.”

His jaw throbs at the mention.

Natasha snorts. “Ha. You’re a goner.”

“No, I’m not. I could fight if I had to,” Peter argues, as they part the double doors at the exit. Descending the stairs, the couple head towards the carpark and wave him off. “I could!” He yells, walking backwards, accidentally bumping into a harried-looking freshman. 

It goes without response. The two share an amused look before disappearing, but Peter isn’t even mad. He’s wily. He could totally take Stark in a fight.

Heading out of the grounds and towards the nearest subway entrance, Peter winces as his injuries are jostled during the descent and massages his cheek gingerly. An old woman ascending the stairs gives him an odd look that turns horrified when he smiles to ease her.

By the time he’s swiped his Metrocard and made his way to his track, his hood is covering his face.

Yep, he’s doomed.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter will admit that during he took an extended moment during his journey home to grieve the loss of his free afternoon, and indeed the impending headaches.

And the rest of his future, if he was honest.

Not that Peter was prone to melancholy by any means, but with this assignment his fate was officially sealed, there was no misunderstanding. He was going to fail this assignment. He was going to, for the first time in his academic career, be forced to submit garbage of a caliber worthy of Tony Stark. It will forever be a black mark on his academic record.

No respectable college is going to accept him after this. In fact, he might as well drop out of school now and hit up Mr Delmar for a job. All of his prep for his MIT application is as good as useless after this. Extracurriculars? Goodbye.

Because it’s confirmed.

He’s doomed.

Swaying with the motions of the train, Peter types a text to Ned, the only person who might provide him with some much needed sympathy.

**> I’m doomed  
** **> paired w/stark for an assignment lollllllllll.   
> help**

Maybe Peter could trade with Ned. Maybe he could plead with their teacher, for honest fear of his life and scholastic integrity. He wasn’t even exaggerating. In no known iteration of this universe could Peter amicably work with Tony Stark. It would be like Harry Potter sitting down for tea with Voldemort, or Frodo and Sauron chilling with a pint and a pipe in Bag End. 

It was unthinkable. Implausible. Laughable.

And Peter would laugh, were it anyone but him in this situation.

The feeling is y'know, kinda foreign to him, he doesn't know what to do with it. Because never before had he found reason in his life to truly dislike anybody really, everyone could be redeemed or given the opportunity for penance. Natasha has said more than once that Peter would offer the devil himself a sandwich if he appeared. 

Tony Stark on the other hand? No sandwich for him.

Well, maybe a slice of bread. But a stale one.

While he waits for Ned to responds he catches sight of his injured reflection in the train window, which is admittedly pretty gnarly. Even with his hood drawn up, there was a noticeable berth allocated to him in the busy carriage between himself and the other passengers.

_**< sux. can I have ur lego hogwarts if u die?** _

**> dude :( pity me.**

**_< lol. so, can i?_ **

Peter sighs.

**> sure. Look after May for me, bro. delete my internet history.**

**_< deal. godspeed_ **

Pocketing his phone, Peter wonders if it’s too late to take up praying.

\---

By the time he’s back in his apartment his mood has managed to swing back up.

Tony Stark is not going to be the arbiter of Peter’s fate. Hell no. He’s smart, he’s creative and hardworking - it isn’t up to anybody but Peter to determine his outcomes. If he has to do the assignment with Stark then he will. And he will work his hardest. If he has to do it sharing the credit with Stark, well, Peter knows a concession when he sees one.

No matter how reluctant he is.

But he powers through it, like ripping off a bandaid. Something Ben used to say was this: _don't sweat the small stuff_. Peter's life as it were, was already markedly pocked with the big stuff. This assignment was just a speed bump and he couldn't allow a small mound to derail him from hims dreams. He’s a _Parker_ and he’s come this far in life already against ill, Parker-like odds. What was being paired for one assignment with someone who escaped the nearest hellmouth? 

It’ll be fine. 

Probably.

Not letting himself linger on his fears, Peter clears out his previous plans of going on a YouTube spiral and eating sour gummies until his teeth stick, instead utilising the time to get his foot in and and begins prepping for the assignment. Cursory, preliminary research at first, before the inevitable deep dive begins.

_Neanderthal_ , Peter scoffs, mad all over again. Who is Stark to call Peter a neanderthal? He’s second in his class. He’s a straight A student. He _likes_ school. And as much as he is moderately skilled in, and enjoys JV, it’s not like he received his scholarship to study at Midtown based on his physical prowess.

The graze on his cheek that stings every time he yawns is proof of that.

Stark can eat his entire ass and choke on it, he thinks darkly, as he continues his research. He doesn’t know the first thing about Peter.

The data is sobering as he delves into job listings and statistics of his projected salary in a three year margin. This is really what his teachers earn? Wow. Depressing. The contrast of expected salary versus the forecast of steep student loans is disheartening further still.

Teaching quietly slips from second to third on his list of ideal occupations.

Turning on a playlist on his phone, Peter continues to compile notes, amassing a truly gargantuan amount of tabs on his browser. His computer, old enough to be on its’ last teeth, whirrs loudly in protest.

It’s not until his room goes dark that he thinks to check the time.

Ah, shit. It’s nearly six.

Peter pauses. Should he tidy up the apartment?

...Nah, no point in breaking a sweat for Stark.

He snorts, resuming typing. As if Peter would care about what the other boy thinks of his apartment.

He hesitates, fingers suspended in mid-air. 

But what if Stark sees his unfolded laundry out on the dining table and publicly shames him for his old-but-comfortable Bulbasaur themed boxer shorts?

Goddamnit.

\---

A quick, cursory clean ensues and leaves a relatively orderly Parker apartment. No freshly laundered underwear is in sight.

Peter wraps up just a few minutes before six. Right on time.

Taking a seat at the now clear dining table Peter drums his fingers on the surface and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

\---

He knows when Tony finally arrives when he hears the sound of a car pulling up outside his apartment block. The riffs of a Roxette remix can be heard playing loudly from the ground to the seventh floor of his apartment, the bass so thunderous it reverberates the windows all the way up to his floor.

Drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, Peter checks the wall clock again. It’s nearly seven.

Tony’s late.

Not that Peter is particularly affected with surprise that Tony is incapable of following basic instructions, but still. Really? _Really_?

By the time there is a knock on his door, Peter is already before it, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl pulling his mouth down. Every second between Tony pulling up and his ascent to Peter’s floor has him positively fuming. He can’t believe how this day played out. It started with such promise. He had such innocuous, albeit high hopes.

Clearly, he miscalculated.

Feeling a touch petty, he waits to answer, listening to Stark knock a second and then a third, more insistent time before he rouses enough calm to open the door.

He instantly regrets it when he does. 

Tony’s expression is curious one as he breezes right passed Peter without waiting for further invitation. There’s a smudge of something dark on his brow, his otherwise white undershirt smeared in dark stains.

Peter watches incredulously as the other boy drops his backpack by the door with a thump.

“You’re _late_.”

He closes the door behind Tony and scowls at the other boys easy posture, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes taking in the apartment.

“I didn’t realise you lived all the way out in fucking _Queens_. Do you have any idea how bad traffic is at this time of day? Also, your elevator doesn’t work. I just climbed seven flights of stairs, where’s the hospitality?”

“Try earning it.”

The other boy rolls his eyes. “Like it’s worth my time.” He breezes past Peter and slides his leather jacket off his arms, tossing it atop of his backpack in the corner. “Look, I’m here now. Okay? You can unclench now. So, do I get a tour or what?”

“Or what. This wouldn’t have been an issue if we had just started straight after class like I said.”

“Oh _I’m_ sorry,” Tony clutches his hands to his heart before gesturing to the room. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting your busy Friday night, Parker. You got a keg and the rest of the meatheads stashed away somewhere?”

Without waiting for a response, Tony wanders around the living room like a curious child in a new play room. His gaze inspects everything all at once, from peering at up close at the wall mounted photos and hovering his grubby hands over the oddments and knick-knacks speckled throughout the space.

Apprehensive, Peter can’t help but shadow him, afraid he just let loose a hurricane in a china shop.

Without asking, Tony picks up May’s old Magic 8-Ball and gives it a good shake. Peter’s fingers itch to reach over and stop him, but stops himself because then that would require actually making direct skin contact the other boy.

Not worth it.

“Cannot predict now. Huh,” Tony says to himself before placing the ball back in the wrong spot. 

They both watch silently as it rolls precariously close to the edge. 

“Anyways,” Tony helps himself to an armchair, lounging back and spreading his legs wide. “I know your long-term memory is probably as defective as the rest of you, so don’t strain yourself recalling that I had other priorities.”

“Like what?”

“Like literally anything that isn’t being around you,” the other boy grins. “Now, are we doing this thing, or did you invite me over so you could bitch at me?”

“I _didn’t_ invite you,” Peter grumbles, swiping his notebook from the dining table before sitting on the sofa, as far away from Stark as possible. Shifting, he takes his phone from his pocket and opens the notes he’d taken earlier.

“So, I cross referenced some websites and current job listings,” Peter scrolls through his research, adjusting his glasses as they slip down his nose. “Assuming you have no savings, we’re looking at an average of sixty-thousand per annum based on my salary alone. The average rent in --”

“-- Uh, why are we assuming I have no savings?”

"Be _cause..._ we’re being realistic?”

Tony springs to his feet and paces across the living room.

“Well,” he says, gesturing to Peter, “if we’re being _realistic,_ does having no savings also that mean I have no debt -- or are you paying off two student loans on your salary?”

“I don’t --”

“Do we have car loans? Health insurance?”

“Wait, slow your roll, Stark. I haven’t yet --”

“-- Of course you haven’t. I mean really, Parker, do you ever think ahead? You should try it, we do have a baby on the way, you know.” Tony clicks his fingers and points at Peter. “Oh, names! I want to call it Molly.”

“As in the _drug_?” 

“ _No_ , as in Ringwald. Sixteen Candles, Pretty In Park? Anyhoo, seeing as only one of us has the intellectual capacity to construct a budget,” Tony gestures to himself, “that would be me, consider maybe that I spent my savings paying off my student loans and bought a car for me and Miss Molly, leaving you with just your own stagnant debt. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” he says through clenched teeth, feeling utterly steamrolled. “But we’re not calling the baby Molly.”

“Yes, we are. Think of all the great nicknames. Hey wait,” Tony pauses in his pacing, “are your parents going to be home soon?”

It was in that moment Peters world narrows down to one, botched cosmic joke.

Turning his gaze heavenwards, Peter prays silently for mercy. What did he do to deserve this. This is all his bad karma come at once. This is the bad place.

“Ah, no,” he replies, eyes widening. “No, my parents are not going to be home soon.”

“Cool. Lucky you.”

Oblivious to Peter’s existential turmoil, Tony resumes his patrol through the living room, picking up a frame on the mantle. It houses an old photo of Ben, May and a young, bespectacled Peter. 

It is one of the more embarrassing immortalisations of his younger self, eleven-years old and grinning widely, bearing his silver braces to the camera as he holds up a science fair trophy, curls wild and untamed.

Oh god. That was exactly what Peter needed on this unholy day - Tony Stark in his living room, witnessing Peter in his prepubescent glory. 

_Quick, create a diversion._

“So, as I was saying,” he says loudly, “rent is reasonably affordable with a sixty-thousand budget in --”

“Who’s the babe?” Tony points to a younger Aunt May in the photo.

Peter gets to his feet and removes the frame from Tony’s grasp. He glowers as he places it back on the mantle. 

“No one you would have a chance with. Can you stay focused? Like, are you physically capable of it?”

“Okay, calm down,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “You’ve got a lot of anger for someone so vertically challenged, you know that, shortstack?” 

“ _Focus,_ dumbass.”

“I’m focused! Let’s see, we’ve established that I am excellent at managing my money. You have a shitty job and a shitty salary, and apparently my imaginary future self has terrible taste in men. So. Have I got that right? Where are we living?”

“Queens. LIC has some one bed, one baths that could be affordable.”

“Uh, rewind. Going to have to eighty-six that - I am not living in Queens.”

Peter stares at him.

Tony rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “Fine, whatever. But I want a Pontiac Firebird in this imaginary life if I have to deal with you.”

“For someone so keen on getting away you’re doing your best to prolong this experience. It’s literally painful.”

“Well, I just like to see you get all riled up, Princess,” Tony grins, leaning back against the mantle and folding his arms over his chest. “You have this vein that bulges on your forehead when you’re mad. Makes you look like a pitbull.”

Peter swallows the particularly acidic retort sitting on his tongue and tries not to let Tony’s words sting. _Be the bigger man_ , Ben used to say. As difficult as it is to channel even a modicum of the mans’ eternal patience, Peter takes a deep breath and reminds himself to stay focused. The less he gets sidetracked by Tony’s fuckery, the sooner it’s over.

He mentions the next part with unease. 

“...Miss Ahn said that we need references and should do field research. Speak to realtors. Ask people who have a similar lifestyle and budget.”

The look that comes over the other boys face is one of unequivocal revulsion. Peter can relate. The thought of having to spend more time with this guy makes his stomach turn.

“Well, Parker, any bright ideas who we can ask?”

The hinges of the front door squeaks before Peter can respond. Moments afterwards, Aunt May steps into the living room, placing her bag down on the dining table. She looks between the two boys curiously.

“Hey, Pete,” she comes to his side to squeezes his shoulder. “Who do we have here?”

Tony rushes over with his hand outstretched, an eager grin on his face. 

“Tony Stark, ma’am. It’s a _pleasure_ to meet you.”

“Oh, ah, okay, well,” May laughs as he enthusiastically shakes her hand. Her eyes are soft as Tony smiles brightly at her. “Nice to meet you too, Tony. I’m May, Peter’s aunt. Are you... friends with Peter?”

Peter snorts. 

“Definitely not. We just have an assignment --”

“-- _Great_ friends, actually,” Tony talks over him, taking a seat beside Peter on the sofa. To Peter’s utter disgust, the other boy puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep encouragingly. “Aren’t we, Pete? Hmm? Best buds. We go way back.”

Peter freezes, feeling the line of heat from Tony’s against his side, the weight of his arm on his body. Goosebumps erupt on his skin, his stomach rolls in what must be revulsion

“That’s sweet,” May smiles, putting her hair up in a loose, messy bun. “Well, I don’t know about you boys, but I’m starving. I’m ordering pizza, Friday special. You should stay for dinner, Tony.”

Tony places his free hand on his chest.

“I would behonoured.”

May looks at Tony strangely before retreating to the kitchen to retrieve the menus.

As soon as she’s out of sight Tony takes his arm off Peter and quickly shifts away from him like he’s been burned. 

“Dude,” Peter whispers, bewildered. “What the fuck?”

“Oh my god,” Tony whispers, shuddering as his face scrunches up in disgust. “I’m going to have to pour scalding hot water on all the places your skin just touched me. Ugh, I feel like I just touched toe fungus.”

Peter slaps his arm.

“What is _wrong_ with you?”

Tony backhands Peter’s arm in retaliation and then shudders all over again.

“Your aunt is crazy hot, okay, I couldn’t help myself. It was an instinctual reaction. Is she taken? C’mon. Vindicate me.” 

“I’ll _eviscerate_ you --”

“-- I mean, clearly she married into the family, she doesn’t share your unfortunate phenotype, but I didn’t see a ring on her finger. So? Yes or no?”

“You’re unbelievable,” Peter hisses as his aunt comes back in. “She’s not available to you. Not now, not ever.”

“But she _is_ available?”

“Don’t even, Stark. You’re like, sixteen. Don’t you have any shame?”

Tony smiles, as she nears. “Not a shred.”

“So,” May waves a menu at them. “You boys happy with pepperoni?”

Closing his eyes, Peter wishes for death.

As fate would have it, he gets pepperoni instead.

\-----

If you had ever told Peter that he would be sitting down for dinner with his Aunt and a dirt-streaked Tony Stark, he would have laughed.

And if Peter were outside himself he would probably find the sharing of pizza and soda over their plastic, chequered table-cloth comical -- in that uncanny, Dogs Playing Poker kind of way. But in reality there was nothing funny about the discomfort of having Tony in his personal space or the heavy, suffocating tension that has removed the air from the room. 

The entire time Tony has been hamming it up, cracking jokes with his aunt, complimenting her on the decor, asking what she does for work. Peter doesn’t know if he’s being sweet to May for the purpose of buttering her up, or, given the wealth of his family in contrast to the Parkers, if he’s being cruelly facetious. 

Nonetheless, Peter has felt on edge. It’s disconcerting, is what it is. Every single movement Tony makes, every time he opens his mouth -- frequently to sweet-talk his aunt -- has Peter’s anxiety standing at attention, hyperaware of everything the other boy does.

He’s beginning to feel like a meerkat whose den has been invaded by a lion.

Through the course of a single meal Peter’s attention moves from the sky to the floor. There is no grace or higher power that is coming to save him from this profound, unusual torture. So he focuses his hopes to the south, seeing through their tiny, cramped, dinner table, past bargaining. He’s willing to trade his soul to end it all. Surely some wayward being from hell would come to his rescue. 

May has Peter’s chin between her fingers. She turns it this way and that, inspecting his injuries.

“What happened this time, bubby?” She frowns, brow furrowing. “You look like you got beat up.”

Peter, very aware of Tony’s amused gaze on them, gently pulls away from her grasp. He smiles placatingly and picks at his pizza slice. God he’s never going to live this down.

“Training accident. It’s okay, I feel fine. ‘Tis but a scratch,” he brings himself to joke.

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

She leans in to kiss his cheek, carefully avoiding the fresh scabs and injured flesh. “God, you bruise like a peach. Be careful, baby, you’re our money maker,” she laughs. “What about you Tony, do you play football?”

Tony, who is mid way through chewing on a mouthful of pizza, momentarily chokes, beating his chest with his fist to swallow down the obstruction.

“Uh, no,” Tony gulps, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Nope. No recreational sports for me. Can’t.” He gestures to his chest and sighs heavily. “Asthma.”

Peter sips his coke and rolls his eyes, knowing full well there’s a half-empty pack of Marlboro Light’s in the pocket of Tony’s jeans. Asthma. What a schmuck.

“That’s a shame. Do you boys have classes together?”

_Unfortunately_ , Peter thinks.

The other boy seems to have the same thought, as he glares at Peter from over the table. When he picks up his can of coke, he gives Peter the finger outside of May’s eye-line.

“That’s why Tony’s here,” Peter twists his napkin in his grip. “We have an econ assignment together on microeconomics. Teach says Tony’s destined to be on welfare.”

Tony leans in, chin rested on his hand. He addresses May but his stare, dark and odious, rests on Peter.

“Not accurate. Stay-at-home parent, actually. _One_ might say that is the most important job of all. Wouldn’t you agree, May?”

She raises her Coke.

“Hear, hear.”

Tony grins roguishly, the same grin he gave the girls at the lockers earlier. “Petey here was just saying that we should ask you about your experience running a household on a single salary. We’d love to have you as a reference.”

“Was I saying that?” Peter narrows his eyes. “I can’t remember.”

Tony kicks him under the table. The hit lands right in his knee cap.

Wincing, Peter kicks back, satisfied when the other boy bites his lip to hold back a pained groan.

“Yeah, well, not surprising,” Tony says airily, waving his hand. “Hit your head today, didn’t you? Maybe you should get all that damage looked into.”

The napkin rips in Peter’s grasp.

“Maybe you should go f--”

“I’d be more than happy to help with your assignment, boys,” May cuts in.

Whatever snide reply he has in his mouth instantly wilts when he looks over to his Aunt. She looks... _pleased_. Delighted, almost. Her eyes under the dull, yellow kitchen light seem to get warmer, and her smile is small but softens around the edges.

Instantly, Peter feels like the worst person in the world. Of course May would be the best person to ask. She does so much for him, the least he can do is set his pride aside for one moment to make her feel good about how hard she works for their life.

He reaches over to squeeze her hand, smiling as gratitude swells unexpectedly in his chest.

“Thanks, May. That would be great.”

Across the table, a smug Tony looks like the cat who got the cream. 

Without warning, Peter’s chest goes hot with contempt, his fingernails dig into his palm. He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone he couldn’t like, until now.

_I hate you_ , Peter mouths while May busies herself with rounding up the pizza boxes.

_Kiss my ass_ , Tony mouths back. 

In an instant his expression flips from contemptuous to angelic when he stands and offers to help May clean up. Peter stands too, sparing a disdainful glance to the floor. Turns out not even the devil was willing to give him a hand.

Natasha was right. It’s going to end in murder.

\---

Peter walks Tony to the door after dinner to say goodbye to his ‘friend’. Following him into the hall, Peter closes the door behind them.

“What do you want, Parker?” Tony asks wearily, retrieving a cigarette from his pocket. “I’m trying to make a getaway here.”

Peter crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t do that with my aunt. I’m not joking, asshole. It’s not cool.”

“Relax, princess,” Tony rolls his eyes, fishing for his lighter in his backpack. “I’m not actually interested. Just trying to get under your skin. Worked, see? You’re easy like that. Hey, why do you live with your aunt anyways?”

“None of your business,” he frowns as Tony holds one hand up in surrender and lights his cigarette with the other. “Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Can’t, shouldn’t, gonna. By the way, you’ve got sauce on your chin, it’s very distracting.”

Peter wipes at it without thinking. When he pulls it away there is indeed a smear of red sauce on his hand.

Tony walks backwards down the hall and exhales a cloud of smoke, waving in a sardonic imitation of a farewell.

“See you Monday, _bubby_.”

Peter doesn’t bother with a response, too tired from the week, exhausted by this whole darn day, and it’s not like the other boy cares what he has to say anyway. He takes a moment to swallow his anger before he heads back inside, sighing. 

Well, at least he has an entire weekend free of Stark to look forward to.

May looks at him curiously when he reemerges, but says nothing. He considers for a moment about heading to his bedroom and playing a video game to disassociate - but then, suddenly, remembers her smile earlier, and how alone she looks now. A surge of affection hits him right beneath his breastbone.

He checks his watch and then catches her eye. Tilting his head towards the living room, he says, “Hey. You wanna eat some ice cream and watch some Colbert before bed?”

She smiles just like she did earlier and kisses his cheek. “Sounds nice, Pete.”

Maybe the whole day wasn’t lost.

As May heads to the sofa and switches the TV on, Peter catches sight of the Magic 8-Ball from the corner of his eye. He walks over and gives it a shake.

_Outlook good._


	3. Chapter 3

There were two things in life that Peter was unequivocally certain were true.

Number one was that Monday mornings were a universally despised, unpleasant experience that no weekend could ever ease the pain of having to endure.

And number two: Sit-ups were a specific and profound mechanism of torture that no person should ever be required to engage in, recreationally or mandated.

Of course, it would be just his luck that the two were combined on this very Monday morning.

It was cruel and unusual is what it was, Peter thought, hands curled at his temples as he pushes himself into a sitting position, falling back onto the dewy grass with a thud that steals the breath from his chest.

Bucky, holding his ankles, encourages him to complete his set.

“I can’t,” Peter gasps, his stomach trembling as he pulls himself up again. “I - _oh fuck_ \- I hate this. I hate exercise.”

Bucky squeezes his ankles tighter. “C’mon, Parker, only three more. You can do it.”

Peter shakes his head, even as he pulls himself up again with a pained groan.

“No, I can’t. Make it stop.”

“Two more. You got it. Sit-ups are not the boss of you.”

“Yes - _ahh_ \- they are!”

“One more!”

Sweat pours down his neck and his muscles protest as he pulls himself up for the last time. He gets probably only most of the way up before his gravity slams to the ground. Bucky slaps his bare calf encouragingly as Peter stares up into the glaring morning sun, arms splayed out, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

Oh, god. Never again. That was the worst. 

Covering his eyes with his quivering arms he wonders if maybe coach will indulge him just this once. Maybe he can stay here until training is over, perhaps curl up into a ball and try to blend in with the grass so that no one sees him or subjects him to any more exercise. 

Except Coach Danvers is already yelling at him to get off the ground and get moving. He smacks his hands over his ears but it’s no use.

“Get up Parker, last warning!”

“Respite!” He yells back pleadingly, curling in tighter upon himself. “Please!”

Her whistle pierces the air.

“Now!”

Coach has been on edge all morning. Her harsh has turned razor edged in the face of their upcoming match against Kingston this Thursday, reminding the team of her expectations, tolerating nothing other than complete dedication.

Which, whatever.

Peter’s dedicated, okay? It’s Monday. He dragged his ass out of bed to be here at an unholy hour, exhausted and bloated from his indulgent weekend, didn’t he?

Erring on the margin of spite towards Danvers and self motivation, which he suspects is her aim, he pushes himself back up. Taking each of Bucky’s ankles in his grip, he starts counting as Bucky begins his set. 

Not that he needs the assistance, Bucky proves his strength by ripping through the set like a bull stampeding through a brick wall. He doesn’t even break a sweat. Dude’s crazy athletic.

It’s really not fair.

As he mentally counts the reps, Peter thinks Bucky’s the kind of fit that Peter both hoped and never hoped to be. He’s effortlessly capable at any physical task, but he works hard for it, harder than Peter would ever dream of working, dedicating hours to gym time and conditioning. Bucky’s not even out of breath when he strikes up conversation. 

“How was your weekend, PP?”

“S’okay. Played Mario Kart with my Aunt all weekend.”

Bucky grins as his upper half rises to meet his knees. “Oh, party animal. She doing okay?”

“Yeah, she’s good,” Peter grins wryly, taking one of his hands from the other’s ankle to push the sweat-damp hair from his eyes. “Kicked my ass though. She always takes Toad.”

“Switch?”

“Nah, GameCube. How was your weekend?”

“Boring. Parents were home all weekend and wanted some ‘family time’.”

“So, you just watched _The Voice_ all weekend?”

“Yup.”

“Nat sneak in after?”

“Yup. How’d it go with Stark on Friday?” Bucky accepts Peter’s hand as he finishes his set. Peter pulls him up and pats him on the back.

The set off in a jog to complete a lap of the field, Coach yells that only five minutes are left, urging them to pick up speed. Peter’s lungs burn when he speaks.

“It was fine.”

Bucky looks at him dubiously, flyaways whipping at his face.

“Well not like, _fine_ -fine, but no bloodshed. See? All limbs intact.” He holds his arms out mid-sprint. 

“Wow, so you’re basically best friends now.”

“No.”

“Did you hold hands and braid each other’s hair?”

Incensed, Peter shoves at Bucky to the sound of his snickering,

“Ew, stop, I just had breakfast. Look, the first experience was painful enough. Can we move on? I _really_ don’t want to talk about it.”

\---

“And then he hit on my Aunt,” Peter complains in the showers, soaping up his chest. “Literally right in front of me. Who does that?”

“Did she flirt back?” Bucky asks, dipping his head into the spray. 

“What? _No_. He said he was just trying to get under my skin,” he puts his head beneath his own shower head, the water pleasantly lukewarm against his heated skin. “I mean, what kind of psychopath does that?”

“Yeah, but your aunt is super hot though,” Wilson says to his right. “Stark’s an asshole, but he’s not crazy.”

There is a general murmur of agreement around the showers. 

“I’m going to need you all to shut up right now,” Peter warns, turning to point at them all. “Keep my aunts name out of your mouth while you’re washing your balls, alright?”

“You heard him, move on,” Rogers cuts in, offering Peter a sympathetic smile. 

He nods gratefully as conversation quickly turns to girls, grades and the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. There was a reason why Peter was on Roger’s side all these weeks ago, he thinks, observing how the entire team respects his command without query. The guy was just interested in doing the right thing, and that’s pretty cool.

By the time they’re all dried and dressed, the topic is forgotten, much to Peter’s relief. He’s nearly late to first period though, too busy watching Wilson and Barnes smack each other with wet towels and attempting to tame his unruly curls into something resembling neatness. He’s not proud of the amount of gel it takes, but it’s what he’s got to work with. 

It’s not that he’s obsessed with his appearance or anything, but he has a routine that he sticks to. Gel and lots of it.

Once, in third grade, Flash pulled one of Peter’s tightly coiled ringlet between his fingers, pulled on it and said _oink_. Peter still had some lingering baby fat at the time and so, as cruel as children can be, Peter was donned Piggy Parker for a time afterwards. Sometimes Porky Parker. They’re friends now, but the oinking and snuffling that followed him around the playground still haunts him.

Anyway.

On the way to first period Rogers walks alongside him down the hall. They have English together, but usually make their way separately. It kind of weirded Peter out for a moment because while they’re team-mates, they’re not really friends. 

“Heard you got paired with Stark for an assignment,” the other boy says, his wry smile caught between amused and sympathetic. “That’s shit luck, Parker.” 

“You’re telling me,” Peter agrees, waving to Ned and Betty as they pass. “Dude’s a freakin’ prick.”

Rogers bumps their shoulders together.

“You said it. Want me to have a word with him, get him to back off?”

“Nah,” Peter shakes his head. “I can handle Stark, he’s just some bored rich kid looking for a fight. Besides,” he gives Rogers a once-over, “pretty sure you’re supposed to keep your distance after your last brawl with him.”

“True,” he concedes, clamping Peter’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze as they stop before their room. “But we’re a team, alright? Just say the word and I’ll encourage some sense into him. Promise to be gentle.”

Peter clamps his hands over his heart with a flair of drama, despite being truly touched. “You’re my hero, Captain Rogers.”

Rogers rolls his eyes and shoves him into the classroom.

“Alright, smartass. Let’s go.”

Inside, he smiles sheepishly at Mrs Perez who glowers at them for their lateness and takes his usual seat between Clint and Shuri. He signs a good morning to the former and smiles at the latter, who is staring down at her desk with disdain.

“What’s wrong?” He nudges her chair with his foot to grab her attention.

“The curriculum.” She raises her head and points to the board miserably. It reads _Lord of the Flies_.

Oh, great. He could use the nap.

Peter smiles sympathetically, opening his nearly full notebook up to a blank page. “How was your weekend?”

“Meh.”

“Meh?”

“Mmm,” She nods, gesturing airily. “You know, eh. Oh, oh! I heard you spent the weekend getting cosy with Stark,” Shuri follows, pretending to search through their textbook. “Wow, that’s a three-sixty, PP. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What?” Peter hisses, voice lowering when their teacher looks around as roll-call commences. “That’s not -- ”

“Parker!” Perez yells for roll call.

“Present!”

Shuri snickers as Peter’s hand shoots up.

Lucky for him it’s the last he hears of it.

Kinda.

\---

His next class is Bio with MJ who, thankfully, says very little through class. She inspects him with bleary eyes when he enters, nursing a coffee in her hands, always earlier than Peter who has to come from the other side of the school.

Peter’s grateful for the reprieve. When she does speak to him, it’s to borrow a pen or to offer him a sip of her coffee. It’s not a lab class today, only note-taking and listening to their teacher drone on about plant anatomy in the same monotone, so he accepts the bitter black coffee without hesitation.

It’s only then that he ventures to initiate conversation.

“So,” he begins precariously, doodling in his notebook, “how was your weekend?”

She shrugs, appearing more awake than earlier. “It was okay. You?”

“It was okay.”

And that was that, he’s relieved to note, companionable silence falling between again as they turn their attention to their teacher again. It’s not until they’re packing up their books at the end of class that MJ speaks to him again.

“See you at lunch?”

“Yeah, dude. Save us a table?”

“You bet. Oh, and by the way, I heard Stark is gonna be your new step-daddy. Congrats.”

Peter groans.

“How do you -- you know what, no,” he says, pulling his backpack over his shoulders and making a _x_ with his arms. “Nope. No more talking about Stark, he is persona non grata. I’m traumatised enough.”

MJ pushes his glasses up after they slipped precariously down his nose during his declaration. “You’re so dramatic, dude.”

He bumps their shoulders together on the way out of the room and shakes his head.

“Why do people keep _saying_ that?”

\---

Ned texts him during recess; Peter is taking an extended break in the bathroom despite not needing to be there, but he’s definitely not hiding, nope. He’s just chilling in the cubicle.

**< heard stark spent the weekend  
< lol wtf  
< plz verify  
< actually i don’t want to know  
< no wait i do tell me  
< dude**

**< hello?**

\---

Traitors, all of them.

He wonders if he should leave this school and start anew elsewhere.

\---

Here’s the thing.

As much as Peter loves his friends, he has limits to how long he can spend with them before needing a time out.

They’re his motley crew of village idiots. Some he’s known since first grade, like Ned and Flash, others only since he came to the school and subsequently, the football team.

This school headhunted him because of his academic merit. With his pursuit of scholastic excellence - and the fact that some of his best friends would be attending the school, he applied for and was awarded a scholarship. It was a no-brainer - he had big dreams and even bigger expectations of himself to achieve them and he wanted May to be proud of him.

Which was why when it was suggested that he try out for JV, having exhibited some physicality during gym class, he decided to give it a try. It would look great to have on his applications, he was assured.

So he did. Somehow his wiry frame and years of gymnastics was considered an asset and he was promptly recruited by Coach Danvers. At first he deeply regretted the additional commitment -- the early hours, the soreness, adapting to the internal culture within the team. But he’s persevered and he’s glad that he did. 

And for the most part, he copes okay. He can juggle football obligations and after-school activities and the odd tutoring jobs here and there and stay sane, right?

Sort of.

Because as grateful as he was for his broad circle of friends, Peter was still, at heart, an introvert. And right now, his social energy is running on fumes. 

It’s because of this - and _nothing_ to do with the relentless questions about Stark - that Peter retreats to the library at lunch that day. 

Nestled away in the dusty, back corner, near the collection of old encyclopaedias that nobody reads, are an assortment of bean bags. It’s away from the main area, quiet and disregarded by most. It used to be a thriving recreational area way before Peter’s time, but there wasn’t any maintenance to it over the years. Now the bags are old, terribly lumpy and are speckled with suspicious stains, the fabric is thinning and aged. Most people purposefully avoid the old rec area, which is why Peter likes this spot best. It’s his secret hiding space.

He prepares to disassociate for the next forty minutes by getting comfortable on his favorite bean bag and popping his earphones in. 

Next, he retrieves his slightly soggy ham-tomato sandwich from his bag and takes a large bite after unwrapping it. The first burst of tomato hits his tongue at the same time as the music begins. 

Ah, to be alone.

Closing his eyes, he allows his body to sink into the bag and for his thoughts to wander freely.

Of course, because his luck is as poor as he is, his seclusion lasts all of three songs before someone else enters into his space. Well it’s not _his_ space, technically, but it should be. 

When Peter creaks an eye open to see who is intruding he’s surprised to see Thor perched on the bean-chair opposite him. They catch each others stare and smile.

Well, alone time is overrated. 

Maybe his luck isn’t down the drain after all - because this is his opportunity to prove he isn’t a total fumbling loser. He doesn’t know which deity he pleased to be alone in a quiet corner of the library with _Thor_ , but someone up there is clearly looking out for him. He wants to say something, to strike up a conversation that might make Peter seem _cool_ and only casually interested - something that would make him sound both smart and like, available.

But not _too_ available. 

With little success, Peter wracks his brain for the best opening line but frets because he’s ever been cool or collected a day in his life. And great, now he’s just been sitting there smiling for like two whole minutes like an absolute weirdo. _Come on, Parker, say something!_

Thor acts well before Peter has the chance to say anything, pointing at him, his mouth moving with words Peter can’t hear. 

Realising a moment too late that his earphones are still playing music from his phone, Peter hurries to tug them out if his ears, smacking himself in the face in the .

“Sorry, I was --” Peter gestures to his ears, hands shaking, cheeks going hot. God, Thor is talking to him. Him! Peter Parker! “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said I like your shirt!” Thor replies, way more loudly than what would normally be socially acceptable for a library, but Peter does not care. Thor likes his shirt.

“This?” He asks, gesturing downwards to his shirt where crumbs are dusted at the collar. “You like Nirvana?”

“I do not know Nirvana,” Thor smiles, “but it looks very cool. Peter, right?”

“Uh yeah,” he nods, face positively flaming because again, _he knows Peter’s name_. Quickly sweeping the crumbs from his shirt, he extends his hand out to the older boy who shakes his hand. Holy shit. Be cool. “I’m Parker -- I mean, Peter. Yes. Nice to be here. I mean, nice to be speaking. To you.”

Even as Peter’s arm is roughly jostled with Thor’s exuberant hand-shaking embarrassment crawls up his neck, and he wants to disintegrate into the bean bag where no one has to witness his persistent, glaring awkwardness. Palms sweating, Peter has to bite his lip to stop himself from commenting on how big Thor’s hands are.

_Stop it_ , he scolds himself, _be normal, play it cool._

“Thor, right?” Peter asks, as if he didn’t doodle their initials together in his notebooks. “You were at training last week.”

“Yes, you fell on your face,” Thor nods, gesturing to the yellowed bruising on his jaw, “I saw.”

“Oh, okay, so you saw that! Uhh -- ” Peter waves a hand at his face, laughing nervously. “This? It’s nothing. I’m totally fine.”

“You are clumsy,” Thor states, not unkindly.

“Well, no -- I mean, yes --” Peter tries to come up with an explanation, but falls short. “I’m not always a klutz, promise. Just sometimes.”

“Happens to the best of us. Well, not myself, but you know, generally speaking. In any case, I’m happy to see you’re okay.” 

Thor unzips his backpack then and from within it retrieves a truly gargantuan protein shake, followed by a sub wrapped in foil so large it could be the same size as Peter’s forearm.Sneaking a look down at the remainder of his own lunch, his pickings look pretty slim in comparison. 

“Sorry,” Thor says. “Just peckish for a snack.”

Peter watches, dazed, as the older boy consumes half his sub in a single bite, washing it down with several mouthfuls of his shake.

A snack.

“You’re fine. Anyway, football isn’t really my forte,” he admits after a moment, drawing his knees up. “I mean, I’m okay at it and I like it, but it’s not really what I’m best at, y’know?”

The blond boy nods, “I’m on the varsity team,” he proclaims, wiping his mouth. “Whatever that means.”

His accent is so thick it takes Peter half a moment to figure out what it was that he said. 

He’s not sure if Thor is being serious or not but the one question Peter has is _why is he so fucking cute?_

A silence follows, albeit not an awkward one. It gives Peter the opportunity to inspect the older boy, nearly a man at his height and stature, of course helped along by the generous distribution of facial hair across his lower face. 

“Uh, did you play football back at home?” Peter asks, keen to keep conversation going. “Soccer?”

“Oh yes,” the boy nods. “Soccer, tennis, volleyball. Water polo. Badminton.”

“Wow,” Peter blinks, “that’s a lot of sport. You’re like the whole Olympics here.”

He’s awarded with a lazy grin for that comment. Thor, to his credit, doesn’t appear to be boastful about his physicality, seemingly a result of his passions instead of a product of vanity.

“Close enough, I suppose. What else do you play, besides football?”

“Uhh --”

Oh god. How is he supposed to respond to that when the idea of doing additional sports outside of football is abhorrent? He can’t tell Thor that. Surely he can fake a common interest. _Think of something, Parker, think, think._

The first bell rings, saving him from having to provide a potentially humiliating answer, seeing as all how all that could think of was _chess_ , or _PC_. Both of which are true and accurate, but not exactly something he thinks that would make him appear more attractive or endearing.

Thank god for fifth period.

“To be continued?” Peter asks as he picks up his backpack, just a little hopeful.

There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs, moment filled with odd squeaks of polystyrene as they attempt to stand.

Thor nods and to Peter’s surprise, doesn’t immediately rush to get away from him. There’s an awkward bit of shuffling as they rush to get off the sagging bean chairs with, odd squeaks of polystyrene as they stand. Instead, he accompanies Peter all the way out of the library, walking alongside him into the main hallway where a flurry of students are intersecting to get to their next class, walking alongside him.

Heads turn to watch them as they depart the library and enter the halls. For a moment, as kids part like the red sea to make way for them - for Thor - Peter wonders if this is what it’s like to be famous. Or to be on the arm of someone famous. It certainly feels like it, because even though the revere isn’t for Peter specifically, it seems like the weight of everyone’s awe is on them.

He doesn’t like the attention. But he likes Thor.

To his delight, the older boy follows him to his locker. Embarrassingly, it sticks when Peter tries to open it, as it usually does. He struggles with it for long, humiliating moments before Thor opens it with one hand.

“Thanks,” he says, blush creeping back up his neck. “You’re like, crazy strong, dude.”

Thor flexes and inspects his own bicep, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, smiling roguishly. “Back at home I used to lift my brother for weight training.”

“You what?”

“A story for another time,” Thor shakes his head, shuffling closer to be heard over the traffic of students. “Anyway, I should be going. But there was something I have been meaning to ask you, if I may take a moment --”

Peter freezes. Oh my god, this is it, he thinks. 

It’s happening.

“-- seeing as you and I have similar interests and we seem compatible, it would please me greatly if you would agree to --”

Heart racing, Peter turns, a fervent _yes_ already on his lips.

It dies when there is a loud call of his name in the hall.

“-- Hey, Parker!”

Whatever Thor was going to say wilts at the interruption, seemingly forgotten as he waves at the intruder. Peter turns to see who called out for him and instantly wishes he didn’t.

Heart dropping to his stomach, he squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. 

This is his luck.

Never has he wanted to melt into the floor and die like he does right now as Stark approaches the pair in quick strides.

Hands shoved into his jean pockets, Stark’s wide eyes dart between them inquisitively, a shadow of a smirk crossing his face, disappearing just as quick.

“Well, pardon me. I _hope_ I’m not interrupting anything,” Tony places a hand on his heart and leans on the locker next to Peters. “Thor, barely a pleasure as always.”

“Stark,” Thor nods.

Tony simpers, smile saccharine sweet and gestures to an uneasy Peter.

“I am just _so_ sorry to intrude, but would you mind if I spoke to my husband here? He’s such a slippery one, aren’t you, sweetums?”

Thor looks between them, head going to and fro like a pendulum.

“He’s _not_ my husband,” Peter rushes to assure, acutely pincered between Thor’s confusion and Tony’s mischief. “I mean he _is_ , but it’s for an assignment. We’re not really -- it’s not real. I don’t like him.”

Tony exhales heavily, looking at Thor with dismay. “That’s not what he said in our wedding vows.”

Peter wants to punch him in the throat.

“I understand,” Thor smiles, patting each of them on the shoulder. He dips his chin and catches Peter’s eye. “To be continued?”

“Y-Yeah,” Peter nods enthusiastically, probably too enthusiastically, he thinks, as his aim is to pretend to be cool and disinterested, but he doesn’t even care because maybe not all is lost after all. “To be continued. See you.”

All of the pomp bleeds away from Tony as Thor walks away, his posture turning into a slump against the locker.

The smile drops from Peter’s face. He sends Tony a heated glare as he retrieves from his books, shoving them into his bag.

“What do _you_ want?” he grumbles, slamming his locker shut. “You have the worst timing, you know that?”

“It’s part of my charm,” the other boy shrugs. “What can I say, I’m delightful.”

“You’re deplorable.”

Tony gasps in mock offence. “Deplorable? Good lord, Parker, is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“If the shoe fits,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, I have to go to class. Say what you want or move out of the way.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that. C’mon, what were you and He-Man grunting about, hmm? _Grr, me big, you tiny_?”

“Unless you have a point,” Peter asks, pointing to the main hall, “I’m leaving.”

Tony puts his hands up in surrender, however the glib expression doesn’t quite leave his face. But at that moment Peter doesn’t have it within him to care, he’s not here to entertain him and sooner they get this over with, the better.

“Alright, alright, buzzkill. Come outside, I have to talk to you about the assignment.”

Peter looks at him, perturbed. 

“I need a smoke,” he explains, tutting at Peter dispiritedly. “Also, don’t lie, I know it’s your free period.”

He doesn’t wait for Peter to respond, heading straight for the double doors that lead to the courtyard at a sedate enough pace for Peter to follow. Nonetheless he jogs a few paces to catch up after debating whether or not it was a good idea to follow or if he should hide in the boys bathroom.

Again.

It’s fairly chilly out, the wind whipping through his clothes. He wishes he had a scarf or gloves or something, opting to shove his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and hooking the hood over his head.

“How do you know it’s my free period?” he queries loud enough to be heard over the wind. 

“Because,” Tony turns to walk backwards, the breeze whistling around them, “it’s also _my_ free period and you always stink up the library so I can’t go there,” he rounds the corner to lead Peter to the shaded area behind the auditorium where a few students are lingering, most of them smoking. 

“ _And_ you take the best seat. Personally, I think it’s selfish. I can’t possibly sit there after your ass has warmed it.”

Willing himself to not rise to Tony’s level of pettiness, he crosses his arms over his chest as they come to a stop. The wind is at full force now that the surrounding buildings aren’t taking the brunt of it and it is cold as all hell, although Tony’s in a black t-shirt and doesn’t look affected at all, probably because he’s cold-blooded or warmed by hellfire.

Tony cups his hands over his lighter to protect the flame from the breeze, struggling briefly to light his cigarette. Once the end is properly alight, Tony takes a drag while staring at him. His hand comes to rest at his thigh, smoke rising idly from the cigarette.

After a moment passes between them, he looks Peter dead in the eye and exhales the smoke in his direction.

“Wow. You’re disgusting,” he waves his hand in front of his face to dispel the smell. “Don’t you know second-hand smoke can kill?”

"Yes. Do you want a drag to speed up the process?”

“Don’t be a dick,” he says as Tony seems to find himself funny, offering up the cigarette in jest. Peter has half a mind to snatch it out of his hands and stomp on it. “I know that’s hard for you.”

“I’m joking, okay. I thought the wind would redirect the smoke. My bad.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure. Anyway, the assignment? Still waiting for whatever was so urgent."

Tony takes another drag, flicking ash to the ground before answering.

“I booked an appointment with a realtor for tomorrow after school.”

That has Peter’s curiosity piqued. “Really? Where?”

“LIC. One of the agents has agreed to be a reference so our domestic nightmare can be officially documented. Yay, go team.”

“Yay,” Peter deadpans. “What time?”

“Appointment’s at four-thirty,” Tony retrieves his phone from his pocket and hands it to Peter. “Give me your number and I’ll send you the details.”

Peter accepts it with a grimace. It’s warm from Tony’s body heat. Ugh.

“And now you can say: ‘ _thank you for being proactive, Tony, you’re so much better than me, Tony’_.”

“Thank you for being proactive, _Anthony_ , even if you’re a self-aggrandizing jerk,” Peter mutters, voice getting progressively more sarcastic. 

A wide smile blooms on Tony’s face, clearly pleased with himself. 

“You’re welcome, Parker.”

He is going to let that one go, Peter decides, feeling magnanimous on spite of the circumstances. He’d never admit it, but he’s kinda surprised by Tony’s apparent initiative, and even genuinely a little grateful that the other boy has arranged this so quickly. Or even that he thought to arrange it at all - field research was one of the highest scoring components on the rubric for this assignment.

Eyes flicking up for a moment, he assesses the other boy. Maybe he’s not as much of a slacker as Peter thought he was.

Tony, slumped against the brick wall, rubs his stomach and burps quietly. 

Or maybe he is.

Nevertheless, Peter types in his details and saves his contact in Tony’s phone as _Your Better Half_. Peter isn’t too much to look at, he knows, but he’s not the weak link here.

Tony accepts the phone back and wipes the touch screen on his shirt before pocketing it. 

“Alright then, meet me after school tomorrow in the parking lot. Don’t be late,” he flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps on it to put it out. Tony bends at the waist then to pick up the stub, clutching it in his fist for later disposal instead of leaving it as litter.

That surprises Peter a little, it’s more thoughtful, conscious a gesture than he would have expected to come from Stark. Not that he’s ever personally seen such behaviour from him, but it wouldn’t be a stretch with his devil-may-care attitude. Would it?

He’s about to make mention of heading back inside when Stark takes two purposeful steps towards Peter, bridging the gap between them. 

Peter freezes on the spot, breath caught in his chest as Tony brings them nose-to-nose. He casts his gaze down at Tony’s lips when his solemn expression morphs into an impish smile.

“Dude, what -- ?”

While Peter is distracted, Tony’s hands dart out to grip the strings of Peter’s hoodie, tugging them until the hood shrinks around his face.

“Do me a solid and try to wear something that doesn’t make you look like you’re a step away from lining up at a soup kitchen, okay? Y’know, something nice.”

Peter smacks his hands away furiously, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Tony backs away, snickering.

“You really get off on being a prized piece of shit, don’t you?” he mutters, somewhat self conscious as he tries to correct the hood. “Poor jokes, that’s real nice. Sorry not all of us were born wearing Balenciaga.”

He continues to struggle with it as they move away and head back towards the main building, pushing it off his head altogether. 

“Calm down, Charlie Brown, it’s not that deep,” Tony says drily, although his flippant demeanour softens significantly. “I have no doubt that you’d still manage to look like a hobo even if you were loaded, okay. You just have that grubby vibe.” Tony claps his hands together. “So, tomorrow. Meet me in the parking lot. Yes?”

Inside, away from the wind, Peter is still helpless to quell the hurricane that is Tony Stark. He gives him a tired thumbs up.

With that Tony sets off in the opposite direction, leaving Peter to wonder what the hell just happened, and what his life has become these last few days. 

“What a jackass,” he says to himself.

Now alone, he rubs his hands up and down his face, fruitlessly attempting to scrub away the memory of Tony close to him, eyes warm with mirth, the heat of his body up close and the smell of nicotine on his breath as he quite literally tugged Peter’s strings. It takes longer than he likes to will the image away and to calm the furious beat of his heart.

Furious; a feeling Peter is becoming progressively more familiar - and uncomfortable with.

Ben used to say that being angry at someone was allowing them to take up space in your head, rent free. He was right, because it never served Peter well to house animosity when acceptance was kinder to his soul and psyche, and to others -- but he can’t _help_ it with this guy. Tony Stark is like an ear worm of the brain. He has this completely obnoxious way of making himself front and centre despite Peter’s best efforts to cast him to the sidelines.

While he’s willing himself to move on his phone vibrates inside his pocket with a new message.

**> ur not my better half, loser  
> why r u like this  
> nvm i already know lol.  
> remember, don’t be late 2morrow**

Peter, just a little satisfied with himself for getting under Tony’s skin, saves his contact as _Tiny Stank_ and types back quickly, eager to get back to his seat in the library - assuming Stark hasn’t already occupied it - and make the best of his remaining free period.

**_< _** **_whatever helps u sleep at night  
< also, plz lose my number after this is over_ **

**> way ahead of u, princess  
** **> say hi to aunt may for me**

Ugh, Peter cringes, pocketing his phone without replying.

That guy is the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony seems like an asshole, I know, but we know he's got a big heart to protect -- remember, Peter is an unreliable narrator here xo


	4. Chapter 4

The last bell of the day sounds and Peter doesn’t know if he’s thankful or reproachful.

On one hand, no more classes. 

On the other: giving up an afternoon of Robotics to spend time with the modern embodiment of the antichrist.

To add insult to injury, it had been one of those long, arduous days that never seemed to end. The hours stretched themselves into impossibly bloated milliseconds as he watched the clock - and it still wasn’t over.

Dread filled him in anticipation of the afternoon and before first period he accidentally smacked himself in the forehead trying to get his locker open. It hurt and he was sure it would bruise. But if he was looking for sympathy, there was none to be found. Bucky and Nat weren’t speaking and in result their friends seemed wary and divided amongst themselves. 

It made for a rather awkward day.

His efforts to be neutral ground and to bridge the gap were met with vexation and were brushed off, so he ate lunch alone again in the library Bucky and Nat were fiery and fiercely independent, so not unexpected, but it was in his nature to want to mend the rift.

Ben used to tell him not everything was up to Peter to fix.

Easy for him to say.

Nonetheless he does his best to keep that notion in mind as he goes through the day, but everything seems off kilter. No one is talking to each other, he was so busy and caught up with all of the internal discord and schoolwork that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. 

And May was acting _super_ weird this morning. 

Worry gnawed at him in a way that had him forgetting about eating, whether it was about May and Thursday’s match, about the giant pimple that bloomed on his chin overnight -- or whatever inevitable torment that Stark had cooked up for them this afternoon.

It’s still a few minutes before they’re due to meet but Peter isn’t dragging his feet.

He _isn’t_. 

Sure, the hallways are vacant of any other students. 

And maybe he is feeling just a little petty for the time Tony kept _him_ waiting despite his own plea not to -- besides, he still has a couple of minutes before he’s due, he’s not going to turn up early for goodness sake, as much as the part of him that says _if you’re not early you’re late_ begs him to quicken his footsteps. 

Maybe he does stretch it to the last minute just to see Tony looking frustrated by his vintage ‘69 Mustang, the line of his mouth unmistakably displeased as the cars in the lot around him gradually disperse. He knows the moment that Tony notices him, leant against his car, sunglasses slipping down his nose to properly glower at him. 

“This is why you’re an asshole,” Tony points a finger at him as he arrives. “I should leave you here.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologises airily, “I was trying to be anywhere but here. I’m not late though, so?”

Tony rounds the car to the drivers side, still pointing at Peter. “Don’t push your luck, Parker. Get in.”

Snickering quietly to himself, Peter heads to the other side. 

The engine growls loudly, a deep rumbling that goes through Peter’s entire body. Buckling himself in quickly, he peers around curiously while Tony reverses out of the lot. He’s reluctantly surprised. For an old car that belongs to a teenager behind at least two school fires it’s in impeccable condition. 

“Nice car,” he says quietly, mostly to himself as his gaze roams the interior with interest. 

It’s difficult to associate Tony Stark with the words _nice_ or _neat_ even, but that’s exactly what the car is. The interior is unscuffed, squeaky clean, the leather seats are comfortable, not a sprinkle of cigarette ash to be seen.

It really is spectacular - when the engine roars and the seats vibrate under him, Peter gets a sense of wonder and curiosity, like that one time he fell in love with DeLoreans after watching Back To The Future with Ben.

Curious, he opens the glove compartment and finds a generous stash of snacks and chocolate bars inside.

“ _Don’t_ touch anything,” Tony scowls, smacking Peter’s hands from the dash. “That’s rule number one. The interior is original and my girl is sensitive to your residue.”

_Residue_ , he scoffs, tempted to reach out and touch more just to be contrarian.

“You got a sweet tooth or somethin’?” Peter asks instead, gesturing to the glove compartment. 

“No.”

“Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Are you gonna say anything else to me on this trip?”

“No,” Tony smiles sardonically, turning up the radio louder until the riffs of Queen’s _Somebody To Love_ drown them both out.

True to his word, Tony remains silent over the course of the drive. It suits Peter fine, it’s not a quiet that is uncomfortable or awkward, not with the radio playing loudly from an oldies station, the wind whistling through the windows and the echoes of traffic around them. 

He thought it might be a stiff and uncomfortable drive, however the longer nothing goes unsaid between them, the more Peter feels himself relax in his chair, warmed by the heater and his limbs loosening until they feel boneless after the day he’s had.

And to his credit, Tony doesn’t appear overly tense or uneasy in having Peter in his space - in fact, he looks as chilled out as Peter has ever seen him. 

The perpetual strain around his jaw and shoulders seems eased, his posture open and casual as he drives with one hand, shifting gears with the other, sometimes tapping out a tune on the steering wheel. And whenever a song he particularly likes comes on the radio he turns up the volume, and if Peter looks over at the right moment he sees him smile privately to himself, a pleased little quirk of his lips.

Sometimes Tony speeds and puts his fingers out the window to card them through the wind, and his smile grows.

Although the amicable vibe has little to do with him, it’s probably the first time that they’ve spent more than five minutes together without hurling insults at each other. 

It’s weird.

Too wary of shattering the peace, Peter doesn’t mention it.

By the time they’re on the Queensboro Bridge the Eurythmics are playing one of May’s favorite songs. Without realising he’s doing it, he’s bobbing his head along to the tune, whispering the words under his breath, suddenly reminded of dancing in the kitchen with her and Ben, nine years old, using wooden spoons as microphones.

He’s smiling before he can stop himself, head tilted back against the seat, eyes unfocused on the skyline. It smells like Tony’s cologne and engine oil, like being enveloped in an old memory. He can see Tony looking at him from the corner of his eye but neither of them say anything.

The volume is turned up.

\---

They arrive at the realtor with just minutes to spare before their appointment is due to commence. 

The traffic had built incrementally during the drive to Long Island City, the roads becoming more congested as they went. The tension in Tony’s shoulders returned as the minutes ticked closer to four-thirty, his tapping on the steering wheel out of impatience rather than good-cheer. He watches the clock with his own worry, feeling a little bad now that he was being glib before. 

Not that the five minutes he could’ve spared would have made much of a difference, but still, guilt whispers vehemently. 

It’s for that reason that he politely doesn’t say anything that could be perceived as inflammatory when Tony pockets his sunglasses and buttons up his dress shirt, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Even if he’s dying to tell him that he looks like a damn nerd.

Not that he can talk. 

Heeding Tony’s words, he’d dressed similarly in his okay-est pair of jeans, a clean shirt and a cardigan. In class, MJ laughed and told him he looked like Napoleon Dynamite.

They head in, a bell above the door signalling their arrival. It’s a chain realtor, not the one they rent their apartment through, but Peter thinks there is an office right near his building. Inside, a middle-aged woman at the front desk greets them.

“Uh... we have an appointment with Kate Price” Tony gestures between them. “Appointment for Tony Stark?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologises in a heavily Welsh accent, “you should have gotten a notification, she’s unwell and taken the day off.” 

“Oh, um --”

“That’s okay though, I’m free, I can help you if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?” Peter queries, sharing a look with Tony who appears just as uncertain. “We’d really appreciate it.”

“Absolutely. It’s quiet anyhow. Come,” she beckons them down a narrow hallway to a set of cubicles and L-shaped desks. There doesn’t seem to be anybody else in the office, he notes, as the two are directed to sit before a desk while the woman types away at a computer. 

“I’m Miranda,” she introduces herself, holding out her hand for both of them to shake. “The appointment notes say you’re after a nearby rental?”

“Sort of, we’re just looking at some pricing. Nothing serious, we just need to take some notes, get a feel for it.”

Miranda’s glasses slide down her nose as she observes them. “You’re a wee bit young to be moving out of home, aren’t you?”

“Oh! No,” Peter stutters, waving his hands, “we’re not actually --”

Miranda waves at him dismissively. 

“Not that I can judge. My husband and I were living together and married by nineteen, ‘course he’s dead now. We had a good run though. Anyway, good for you. Young love, it’s so sweet.”

“Young what,” Peter says.

Miranda, typing away cheerily at her computer, clearly didn’t get the memo about the school project like Kate must have.

Peter turns to Tony, who is just as wide-eyed as he is.

_What the fuck_ , he mouths, slinking down in his chair.

_I don’t know,_ Tony mouths back, stupefied.

“So, what are we thinking - a studio if it’s just the two of you? Something cozy?”

“Uh, well, we’re looking to grow,” Tony says, hand slapped over his mouth. He shares a bewildered, wide-eyed stare with Peter.

“Right, well, nothing wrong with knowing what you want. What’s the budget? Let me see what I can find for you.”

“Ah,” Peter shifts in his seat, trying to communicate wordlessly with Tony as their research angle quickly becomes derailed.

He tries to communicate the need for an urgent exit in a stare that he hopes is prolonged and meaningful, but is only met with equally panicked blinking from the other boy. There’s a moment spent blinking undecipherable messages at each other and before he knows it the silence has stretched on far too long.

“Well, we were thinking sixteen-hundred a month. Right... Tony?”

“Right,” he nods slowly, eyes darting between the two. “Single income, see. Parker - uh, Peter is still in school.”

“Oh, bless,” she says spiritedly, typing away at her keyboard. “It’s not easy, I know, been there. What do you do for work, young man?”

“Me?” Tony asks, gesturing to himself, shooting Peter a desperate look. “I’m... a mechanic...apprentice.”

Peter has to disguise his snort with a cough, the horse so far out of the gate there is no catching up to it.

“Good for you, darling,” she says distractedly as she busies herself with the monitor, missing the heated glare Tony sends him. “Let’s see, might be tight, but we may have something for you. One bed, one bath, a living room that can be converted to a second bedroom.”

“Great,” Peter nods hesitantly. “Where?”

“Across the street, actually,” she swivels the monitor on its stand to show them a set of blurry photos of a small apartment. “And it’s currently vacant - we can do an inspection right now, if you’d like?”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“One moment,” Tony smiles at her, holding up a finger.

There’s a screech as Tony pulls Peter’s chair across the linoleum with a single hand.

“This is getting out of hand,” Peter whisper-hisses, ducking his head.

“I know, I know, I know,” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, making placating motions with his hands that do little to appease Peter’s rising apprehension. “It’s alright, it’s under control. Listen, hear me out, we go to the inspection, have a look at the place --”

“You can’t be serious, dude, we’re _sixteen._ ”

“We’re not going to actually fill out an application, numbnuts, _listen_ ; we go, we take some pictures, get some details about the property, add it to our report and bam, who needs a reference? Think about it! Who else is going to have this level of detail in their report?”

“I’m not exactly sure this is what Miss Ahn meant by field research.”

Tony pokes him in the forehead. “Think outside the box, precious. Rise above the urge to do the bare minimum and we might just get a good grade.”

Peter sneaks a glance at Miranda. “Fine,” he pokes Tony back in the chest. “But _you_ do all the talking, smartass.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Tony turns back to Miranda and offers her a charming smile. 

“We’d love to. Lead the way.”

\---

They door sticks when Miranda turns the key into the dead-lock.

She struggles with it momentarily, smiling assuredly at the two boys as she twists the doorknob back and forth, pressing her shoulder against the peeling wood, forcing it open with a bang.

“Here we are,” Miranda announces brightly.

The two follow her inside, sharing a reluctant look with each other as she leads them into what must be a living room, the _click-clack_ of her heels echoing off the scuffed floorboards and bare walls.

The first thing that Peter notices is that the room, while void of furniture, seems impossibly small, even by New York standards.

With the three of them spread thinly throughout it, there are but a few inches of space between them. Barely any room for a couple of armchairs, let alone a full sofa or a coffee table.

At a glance, he takes stock of the cracks in the ceiling, the discoloured patches in the plaster and the splintered wood of the front door frame where it appears it has been forced open from the outside. The chain-lock is broken.

Tony is over by the far corner, wiping a finger through a layer of dust on the window sill. 

There’s a loud bang from upstairs.

“So, this is the living area,” Miranda says with a flourish of her wrists. “And if you follow me, this down here,” she leads them around the corner, “is the kitchen.”

The kitchen is comprised of a small formica bench, a stained backsplash and several cupboards missing their handles.

While Miranda continues to point out and inform them all of the ‘ _cosy_ ’ and ‘ _quaint_ ’ features, Tony slips his phone from his pocket and with a nod of acceptance, lingers back a few steps to take photographs of the apartment. While he’s doing so, Peter busies himself by inspecting the kitchen, toying with the dials of the oven and the two-burner stove top, testing the swing of the cupboard doors. 

Inside one of them is a dirty tea-cup and a dead cockroach.

“-- and as you can see, _plenty_ of room for a dining table, maybe you might like to have friends over --”

He follows them into the bathroom, which is just as compact as the rest of the apartment. He tests the faucet, noting that the tiles are cracked, as is the bathtub. 

Most worryingly are the speckled spots of black spores along the higher walls and the ceiling. 

“-- it’s a big old tub, plenty of room,” she pats Tony on the stomach, “could fit two in a squeeze if you suck it in, aye? Now, this way please boys, let me show you the _pièce de résistance_ \--”

Tony guards his stomach with his hands, pouting as Miranda leads them to the adjacent room.

“This is the main bedroom,” she beams, flicking on the light. “Perfect, isn’t it?”

The two young men stall in the doorway, peering inside. 

The space, probably equipped to handle a solitary king-single and a drawer at best, isn’t particularly generous by any means. The flickering bright yellow globe seems to only highlight the blistering wallpaper and the suspiciously stained carpet.

It smells like weed and cat-pee. 

“So as you can see, plenty of privacy for you two, the living room can be converted into a second bedroom if need be -- or if one of you needs to sleep on the couch,” she winks at them.

“Right,” Tony says slowly, nudging the other with his elbow. “What do you think...honey?”

“I don’t know, _dear_ ,” Peter says, elbowing him back. “What do you think?”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

“Bless,” Miranda cuts in, leaning on the doorframe while she observes them. “You’re just _adorable,_ you must be high-school sweethearts.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“...Y-Yes,” Tony says after a moment, voice croaky. His hand snakes out to awkwardly pat Peter on the shoulder. “...we are.”

“So, what do you think?”

“About him?” Tony points to Peter.

“About the apartment,” she laughs. “What do you think, do you like it?”

“Oh, um, I have a few questions actually,” Peter mentions, following them back into the kitchen area, ignoring the odd look that Tony sends him. “If that’s okay?”

_What are you doing_ , Tony mouths, back turned to the realtor as he clears his throat. 

Peter holds a finger up to request a minute. There’s a struggle to each convey their message silently, however, Tony reluctantly concedes, spreading his hands wide in a theatrical approval to proceed.

He paces the room, shuffling at the bubbling linoleum that he’d narrowly tripped on coming in, bending down to inspect it.

“Do you know how long the apartment’s been vacant?” He directs his question to the realtor.

“Oh, not long,” she replies vaguely, flipping through her file. “Couple of days or weeks, I think. I’d have to check.”

Peter nods, glancing between the three, standing. 

“Umm, I noticed that the oven doesn’t heat up. I thought that maybe the gas was turned off but the stove works? Also, um, in the living room there’s a section of floorboard that’s rotting with because there’s a water leak from the ceiling?”

Miranda’s smile freezes. “Oh, is there? That must be new.”

Peter wrings his hands together, glancing at Tony, stomach swooping at his own boldness. “And, uh, I noticed that the windows stick; the water pressure is funny, too?”

“I can get that checked --”

“There’s black mold in some of the rooms. I think because there isn’t temperature control, the windows are west-facing, so it must get pretty humid in the summer.” 

Peter looks to the other boy in what he hopes seems heartfelt. “I don’t mind, I only mention it because Tony’s... well, he’s got _asthma_.”

Tony coughs, catching on. 

“Yes, that’s right.”

Miranda’s posture crumples at that, her professional veneer instantly wiped from her face. 

“You’re right, this place is a dump,” she admits, kicking at the floor, spreading her arms out wide. “Look at it, it’s vile. I wouldn’t let my wretched old mother-in-law live here, the old bag. I’m sorry, boys.”

“Well, actually,” Peter says, gesturing between himself and Tony, stepping closer to him. “We’d be happy to do all the repairs and look the other way about the safety violations if there’s any wriggle room on the rent?”

Miranda flicks through the papers she’s holding, adjusting her glasses as she reads through it. The adjacent neighbors can be heard yelling through the thin walls.

“We do have a margin to drop it from sixteen-fifty to... fifteen-hundred a month for the right tenants. Not going to lie, the landlord is pretty desperate. Would you like an application?”

Tony clamps his hand on Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it. “We’ll think about it. Could we get all of those terms in writing, pretty please?”

Peter grins.

\---

“I can’t tell if that was genius or crazy,” Tony says after they’ve departed ways with Miranda, headed back towards the Mustang on the other side of the road. “Seriously can’t say I expected that.”

The pair jog across the road once there is a gap in traffic.

After Ben passed, Peter and May moved twice. As a young child Peter saw another apartment as just that - another place to set down his duffle of second-hand clothes and thrift store toys. But May was smart. Savvy. She calls it the _Parker Discount_. 

Peter shrugs when they reach the car.

“Well, just because our report is meant to focus on budget against costs, doesn’t mean we can’t find ways to save money and maximise it. Not when you consider insurance, bills, food. It all adds up.”

“I’m still trying to pick my jaw up from the floor. Didn’t know you had that in you, Parker.”

“Yeah well, you don’t know anything about me,” Peter says to the ground, kicking at the pavement, “so.”

He tries not to squirm under the weight of Tony’s considering gaze, like a vice tight on the back of his neck. He feels the moment something shifts, as if a pin pricks the wall between them, easier to breathe.

“Look, whatever you think about me, I don’t care, but you probably couldn’t find a better partner for this project. I know more about this than you do.”

“Alright, no need to crow about it, I just _said_ I was impressed. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Peter’s stomach growls loudly over the evening traffic before he can respond. 

“Sorry,” he says, cursing the timing of his body, “haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

Tony nods to a diner across the road.

“You wanna?”

“Oh,” he objects, worried about his bone-dry bank balance, “I’m not --”

“C’mon, dickweed, my treat. Don’t leave a guy hanging, it’s not polite.”

Tony waits patiently, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s sure it’s a look that many have fallen for. A crooked, wry smile and a self-confident air that one might confuse between charm and indolence. 

He feels out of his depth for once, and isn’t sure if he likes it. But his stomach growls again and he’s got nothing to lose except for his appetite. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Sure.”

\---

It’s the most surreal experience he’s ever had.

He pinches himself to believe that it’s real, that he’s dining out on a Tuesday evening in the boroughs with Tony Stark. The same guy he thought might murder him just last week.

He’s still not so sure that’s out of the question, to be honest. It would be the most normal thing about this entire day.

The silence is definitely awkward this time, sat at a table outside under a weather-protective canvass while they wait for their meal. A woman with a large doberman sits nearby, giving them odd looks every so often as she speaks loudly on her phone.

Peter’s nursing a giant glass of cola. The only sounds between them since they ordered have been the clinking of ice cubes from his glass and the sound of bubbles as he blew through the straw for a lack of better things to do.

From the daggers he’s getting from Tony, he’d wage that he’s annoying him - hence the probable murder - but he’s spared by their waitress returning with their meals.

A truly monstrous pile of fries is placed before Tony, along with a burger, a sundae and a milkshake. He takes off his dress shirt to reveal a black undershirt, as if in preparation to sweat through the meal.

_Big meal for a big mouth_ , Peter thinks, as his own BLT is set before him. 

It’s weird.

Tony is weird.

This whole damn thing is weird.

“Don’t you think this is weird?” he asks, idly picking a seed from his crust and nibbling on it.

“Yeah,” Tony sighs. 

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither. What was I thinking?”

“Dunno,” Peter says.

It’s quiet again after that. And it’s _weird._ Sitting down with over a civil meal with Stark or any of his cohorts wasn’t particularly on his bucket list for junior year, but here he was, picking at his crusts, dying to pee.

Tony takes three fries from the pile and dips them into his sundae, then the milkshake before eating them.

“Dude, gross.”

Tony looks at him oddly. “Uh, no it’s not. Have you never dipped your fries in ice cream before?”

“Is that a metaphor for sex?”

“What? _No_ , you weirdo,” Tony shakes his head. “Are you serious? You’ve never -- god, that explains everything,” he slides his fries across the table a few inches. “Though it truly nauseates me to share with you, I can’t let this stand. Try it.”

“Ew, not after you’ve touched them --”

Tony slides his milkshake closer.

“ _Try_ it, butthole. You won’t totally hate it, promise. Well, you might, but if you do it’s just gonna confirm that your taste is garbage, which is what I already think about you. Anyway. C’mon, try it.”

Peter, while staring at Tony, begrudgingly accepting a fry from the peak of the pile and scooping it in ice cream from Tony’s sundae. 

He waits for the moment the combination of textures will make his stomach turn while he hesitantly chews, but instead is pleasantly surprised that the sweet salty flavours compliment one another so well.

“Not the worst, is it?” Tony grins knowingly, placing another fry in his mouth in the same manner. “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s good. Say it. I’m right.”

“It’s alright,” Peter says, stealing another fry to make sure. “Don’t let it go to your already inflated cranium.”

The self-satisfied smirk on Tony’s lips tells him it already has.

Quiet fills the space between them again, more charged than before in a manner that Peter can’t really describe. Like as if there was a soft buzz in the air, like he would get be struck with static electricity were he to touch it. 

Not keen on getting stung, he continues eating his sandwich.

Tony on the other hand, has other ideas.

“So, Peter Parker, now that I know you’re not a total dumbass, tell me this,” he takes a deep breath, his expression grim, “ -- do you wear glasses for the aesthetic or what?”

Peter stares at him.

“C’mon. Are you aiming for nerd chic? You shouldn’t, it’s very 2012.”

“Dude, no. I know glasses are like a _thing_ or whatever but I actually do need them to see. I’m like, blind as fuck.” 

“How blind is blind as fuck?”

“Pretty blind.”

He takes off his glasses and twirls a finger in the direction the smudge of colour that he assumes is Tony.

“Can’t see you, like at all,” he squints. “You’re just a blur. It's the best you’ve ever looked.”

Tony takes the glasses from his outstretched hand, and he has a hysterical moment where he thinks that Tony might go so low as to steal them, but is quickly realizes he’s just trying them on. He whistles before handing them back to Peter.

“Yup, those are prescription alright. The fuck? Why don’t you wear contacts?”

Peter shrugs, slipping his glasses back on. Stark comes back in perfect clarity. 

“They’re super expensive,” he’s alright with admitting to Tony at this point. “I have some I use for matches, or for special occasions, but I dunno, I’m used to glasses.”

“Do you have to clean them all the time?”

“Yes.”

In fact, there’s smudge from where Tony has inadvertently touched the lens.

“Have you ever stepped on your glasses accidentally?”

“Yep.”

He’s done it more than once but he’ll never forget the first time, how upset he was in the moment or how he fruitlessly tried to hide his face from Ben and May so they wouldn’t see the cracks in the lenses. He cried when they found out. 

That first time was just weeks after his parents had died, and he’d already been laden with thoughts of being a bother and a financial burden on the couple. They never stopped trying to prove that he wasn’t a hardship to care for. Sometimes, on mornings like the one he had, he still can’t help but wonder how much better off they might have been without him.

They eat in contemplative silence afterwards. While he finishes his sandwich he watches as Tony surreptitiously feeds his fries to the doberman under the table, unbeknownst to the owner. He has to eat quickly to conceal the smile taking over his lips when the dog slowly shuffles closer to their table with purpose, looking at Tony with big, soulful eyes. 

Once he’s finished eating and there’s nothing left to hide his amusement, he resumes their conversation.

Clearing his throat, he points towards the Mustang once he has Tony’s attention. “Okay, your turn. What’s with the deal with the old girl?”

"My car?”

"Yeah. Explain the whole greaser vibe.”

The other boy is quiet for a moment, his gaze searching Petter contemplatively, a napkin being twisted between his hands.

“She was a hunk’a junk when I bought her, mostly scrap metal. I bought all the spare parts and got her up to scratch. I dunno, I just like cars, tinkering with them or whatever.”

“You restored her by yourself?” Peter asks, reluctantly impressed. 

He looks at the car again, trying to picture it.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Tony Stark getting his hands dirty, being the prized pig that he was, but having the wherewithal and competence to rebuild a vintage vehicle at _sixteen_? It would explain the whole Danny Zuko, T-Bird look, but with his bank balance, he could have easily bought a Mustang in mint condition without having to lift a finger. It would explain the streaks of oil from the other day.

Tony shrugs, twisting a napkin between his hands.

“Sorta. Anyway, quit your judging, four-eyes.”

“Not judging,” Peter holds his hands up in innocence. “I just didn’t expect that about you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m exceptional, I know.”

"That’s not the word I would use,” Peter allows. “But you’re not the worst.”

A flash of surprise briefly crosses the other boys face before it disappears. 

“High praise,” he says wryly, resting his chin on his hand. He looks Peter up and down slowly, his big, curious eyes made warm by the dying sunlight. 

“I’m as shocked as you are.”

“...You’re not the worst either, I guess,” Tony sighs like it pains him to admit it. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we could never be friends -”

“Definitely not -”

“ - but you’re not completely intolerable. God, never thought I’d say that. Maybe I’m growing as a person.”

“Am I still a neanderthal?”

Sipping his milkshake through the straw, Tony raises his shoulders half-heartedly.

Peter kicks his foot from under the table, unwilling to take that for an answer, even if Tony kicks him back, his eyes flicking upwards briefly, his smile almost bashful. In the dying light of the sunset he almost looks soft; approachable.

“Probably shouldn’t have called you that, huh.”

“Probably not. Is that an apology?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it, Parker. I’m just saying you’re not completely abhorrent. Who knew.”

“I knew. I just don’t know why you’ve always hated me so much.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out small and quiet, but he can’t take it back once the words have left his mouth.

It starts to rain.

“Sorry,” Peter says, louder to be heard over the droplets hitting the overhead umbrella heavily, immediately feeling stupid. “I shouldn’t have -- it’s not a big deal. I mean, I really don’t like you either.”

“Can I get you boys anything else?” 

Both boys turn towards the waitress who’s approached their table, lined-lips smiling down at them, a notepad in her hand.

Tony throws a fifty down on the table and stands and Peter follows suit.

“Nah,” he says, cocking his head to the door. “We’re good.”

\---

“See you back at school?” Peter yells to be heard over the rain, back on the sidewalk.

“I’ll drive you back,” Tony yells back, wet hair clinging to his face.

“What?” Peter cups a hand over his ear.

“What?” Tony does the same. “I said I’ll give you a lift!”

“The station isn’t far,” he points. “I can walk!”

“Don’t make me look like an asshole! Get in, princess!”

With the rain pelting his thin shirt and thunder cracking angrily from above, he doesn’t spend his energy arguing. He gets in.

\---

The short drive back is amicable, music muted, the pitter-patter of the easing rain filling the ever-growing comfortable silence between them.

With the heater going it doesn’t take long to dry off and restore the feeling back to his fingers. Heat beats from the vents beating pleasantly and along with being sated from the meal, Peter feels like he could nod off at any moment. He has to keep snapping his eyes open, although it’s difficult to adjust his focus as the sunset bleeds into a ruddy orange on the wet windshield, the lights from the cars blurring into bright long streaks of colour. 

"You’re not a total lost cause, Tony admits suddenly, slowing as they near his apartment block. It’s the first time either of them has spoken since starting the drive back. “Look, maybe it’s the fact that your face looks like a puckered asshole when you speak, I don’t know. There’s just something about you that really rubs me the wrong way."

Peter cringes as they come to a stop outside his building.

"I don't want to rub you in any way."

"And yep, here comes the mental image,” Tony’s nose scrunches, like an infant that just ate something sour. “Gross. Thanks, Parker.”

“Welcome.”

He unbuckles himself and opens the door, hesitating for a second while the moment settles between them. “Thanks for the grub and the ride, I guess. Text me when you get the paperwork from Miranda?”

“Aye, aye,” Tony mock salutes him. “Now get out of my car.”

Peter complies, giving him the finger by way of goodbye. Once the car merges and disappears into the traffic, he grins down at his hands, cheeks going warm.

It’s the thrall of finally feeling on equal-footing, he reasons, as he takes the step back up to his apartment. That’s what it is. His stomach is inexplicably still squirming as he enters ascends the floors, going over the day in his head until he arrives at his door.

It smells like tikka masala and too much ginger when he enters. He sets his backpack by the door, placing his keys on a nearby hook. 

May greets him with a sway of her spatula, sauce hitting the splashback with the motion.

“Hey bubby,” she says, gripping his shoulder as he nears and kissing his cheek.

Upon closer inspection, he finds that the kitchen is sparking clean. The floors have been mopped, the grout between the tiling is without a speck of dirt and there are faint notes of harsh disinfectant below the smell of spices.

“Oh wow,” Peter says, looking down at the chicken and bean assortment. The rice on the burner looks soggy and overcooked. “That looks great. How was work?”

She gestures vaguely but doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You hungry?”

It’s the same weird behaviour from this morning and he doesn’t have the heart to say that he’s already eaten.

Instead, he collects the cutlery and napkins, takes a stack of bowls and helps her plate up.

“Dancing With The Stars?” he asks, tilting his head towards the living room. He hip-checks her when she doesn’t reply. “C’mon, you’re not going to let me eat all alone, are ya? Tony says ‘hi’, by the way.”

He doesn’t know why he adds that last part, recalling the exchange rom the other day, but it’s worth it to see her smile.

“Alright,” she nods, scooping rice into the bowls. “How is Tony?”

Everything that happened that day bleeds away, unimportant, insignificant. 

“He’s alright, I guess.”

\---

May falls asleep on the sofa hours later. 

He doesn’t want to move her, as exhausted as she is, so he covers her with an old blanket and removes the glasses from her face, placing them on the coffee table. He cleans up as quietly as he can and places her phone on charge in the living room.

On his way to bed he checks his phone for the time. Both Bucky and Tony have sent him text messages, the latter with the awaited paperwork.

Ben would be proud of him, he thinks, smiling as he reads through some of it, saving the rest of it until he’s more alert.

Maybe it wasn’t such a horrible end to the day after all.


	5. Five

When Peter wakes up Friday morning, he wishes he hadn’t.

Being ripped out of a very pleasant dream was one thing, mid-rut against his mattress, breath dewy against his pillow. But waking to the shrill beckon of his alarm, his having his entire body feel like one gigantic bruise. The temptation to stay cocooned under the sheets to feel sorry for himself was a relatively strong, in deference to his stiff, protesting limbs. He'd hit snooze right up until the last moment, erring on the side of running late, but dragged himself to the bathroom in the end. 

In fact, peering down at his body in the shower, there wasn’t much of him that wasn’t profoundly sore and discoloured. His knees and chest were mottled a deep purple, tender to the touch, and his left hip clicked with the slightest movement. Under the spray he palms himself half-heartedly, wanting to close his eyes and continue that dream he’d had last night, but even the sensation of the water hitting his skin was enough to wilt the morning wood he’d woken up with.

He sighs down at his soft cock, disappointed. _To be continued_ , he promises. 

As the state of his body would suggest, the game against Kingstonlast nightwas nothing short of a disaster.

They’d lost by only two points, but the litany of injuries the team incurred, including himself, was substantial. He’d like to say he went down valiantly. That he’d been some kind of pivotal player in the match and went down on at a high point, but the truth was far more embarrassing. Peter had had _one_ possession of the ball all night, and only ten minutes into the first half of the game. 

That was all that was required for a two-hundred-pound linebacker to tackle him and drive him into the dirt. 

Luckily, his face was spared from the damage this time. His right hand, however, was left badly sprained. 

That part was fine. It was part of the package of high school sports to hurt yourself on field and Peter could live with a dignified injury. But being assisted off the field because of a bad wrist, his aunt and fellow classmen watching in the rows, _that_ was pretty embarrassing and not at all dignified.

Look. There was never going to be a time that Peter claimed to be a star athlete, alright. He was a good wide-receiver; he was quick on the field, his short, but strong frame was an asset when it came to dodging more powerful, albeit slower, players. But he was never going to be sport scholarship material, it was clear that his strengths ultimately lay in the academic arena.

Nevertheless, it was still humiliating to be forced on the bench mere moments into a game, watching his team slowly lose such an important meet without being able to help. 

They’d lost on home soil. _Two points_. That was all that stood between their team and victory.

Danvers was _pissed_. And that wasn’t even the worst part. 

The worst came while Peter was getting his hand attended to by the field medic. He’d made the mistake of scanning the stands for his aunt and inadvertently caught the eye of Thor, sitting in the back row with a group of friends. Maybe the crooked smile on Thor’s face was supposed to be one of encouragement, but honestly he could have just as well been laughing at Peter’s complete inability to remain upright.

His face burns even now just thinking about it. 

But you know what? It’s Friday. He has the whole weekend to relive his humiliation and wallow in self pity. “Just one more day,” he tells his reflection.

With his one, functional hand Peter pulls on his jeans lopsidedly and forgoes tying up his shoelaces. Miraculously, he manages tames his hair to appear somewhat presentable before he’s due to leave for his train. The last thing he needs to do before he leaves is to find his homework folder.

He swears he left it in the living room the night before, but he struggles to locate it amongst the pile of magazines and paperwork the coffee table, stacked like a tenuous pyramid of Cosmo and Nat Geo. It's as he's precariously removing each item like it were a Jenga tower that May calls out for him.

“You still here, Pete?”

Abandoning the search, he rises to his feet and meets her in her bedroom doorway, the morning sun from her window hitting the back of her head like a halo. She smiles sunnily at him, dressed for work, running a wooden brush through her long, russet strands. 

"Hey, just wanted to run something past you," she says. "What do you think of going over to Aunt Margarets’ for Thanksgiving next week?”

He hitches his backpack over his shoulder, face breaking out into a genuine smile. “Really? That sounds awesome! It's been ages.”

“I thought you’d like that," she nods. "She’s invited us over to stay the whole long weekend.”

“Count me in. As long as she makes Pecan pie, otherwise no deal,” he jokes.

May rolls her eyes, tapping him on the chest with her hairbrush. “I’ll be sure to mention that particular caveat. Anyway, just wanted to make sure in case you had some other grand ideas. Now, get going, chicken-little.”

He dodges another hair-brush attack, shuffling backwards. “I’m going, I’m going.”

“I won’t be in until late, I’ll leave some money for dinner on the counter, okay?”

Peter winces. “...Actually, I might be late home tonight. I forgot to mention. The varsity team is playing, and there is supposed to be this thing at Flash’s after...”

“A thing, like a party?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I meant to tell you.”

“You kill me, kid,” she sighs. “Keep your phone on you, okay? Do you need a lift?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, “Steve’s gonna drive us.”

“Sure? Call me if you need me to drive you home.”

“Will do. Larb you.” He salutes her, his watch telling him he is well and truly cutting it close to being late for training.

“Larb you more. Now get outta here.”

\----

It’s not until he’s reached the ground floor of his building that Peter realizes that he’s forgotten his folder of completed homework and his notes for the Econ assignment. 

“Ah, crap.”

He pauses, hesitant to drag his aching body back up those stairs again. The temptation to take the fall for not handing in his homework is intense, but he turns on his heel and relents, groaning as he makes his way up all seven flights, dodging harried couriers and elderly residents as he races up.

He can still hear May bustling about her bedroom as he re-enters the apartment, heading for the stack of documents on the messy coffee table in the living room, half-remembering leaving it there the night before.

“That you again, Pete?” May yells.

“Yep,” he rummages through the pile for his folder, “I forgot something!”

The pressure of reaching training on time presses heavily on him, so he swipes desperately at the pile of magazines and books, completely forgoing all his prior carefulness. He could have sworn this is where he left his notes last night.

Damn. He’d been so freaking hellbent on showing up Tony in his class that he’d stayed up well past his match last night researching for their assignment. Keen to feel useful - and smug - he’d barely caught a couple of hours sleep. What a shame it would be to let all that effort go to waste. Not that he’d had anything to prove, especially to _Tony Stark_ , but there was no way he was going to stand up at their presentation and let Tony claim all the credit. No freaking way.

_Please_ , Peter thought, opening up a drawer, this grade was all on him. No way Tony was ever gonna call him lacking intellectually after he sees all the hard work he’s done.

Throwing scrap paper and fading receipts to the floor, he spots his folder towards the bottom of the drawer, obscured by a bunch of envelopes.

“A-ha,” he says, reaching for it. A pile of letters fall out onto the floor when he pulls it out. “Oops.”

The first one he picks up is addressed from the Presbyterian Hospital in Queens, stamp-dated from over a couple of weeks ago. Peter frowns, picking up another.

The next is from their gas company, the envelope musty-smelling and similarly branded in an angry, crimson stamp that reads ‘ _Overdue’_.

Worry rapidly rising in his chest, Peter looks back to the direction of May's bedroom, making sure the coast is clear before flicking through the stack of envelopes. One from their phone company, then another from their insurance company.

His heart skips a beat. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” May calls out again, snapping Peter from his thoughts.

“Uh, yeah,” he yells back, shoving the envelopes back into the drawer, but not before slipping one into his folder. “All sorted!”

“Alright, have a good day!”

“You too!”

Peter shoves the folder into his backpack, zipping it up hastily in case she comes out of her room. He leaves quickly, entirely too late to practice at this point.

He feels the weight of the envelope the entire way to school.

\----

If he thought training would be a reprieve from his concerns, then he was sorely mistaken.

“What do you _mean_ I’m on the bench?”

Danvers looks pointedly at his wrist brace.

“But we’re only training!” he protests, waving his hand around. “I can still do laps at least. There’s no contact.”

The look she sends Peter is pitying.

“You’re a liability, Parker,” Danvers places her hands on her hips. “You go out on that field and a gust of wind knocks you over while you’re injured? I’m responsible and Fury comes down on my ass. I can’t have that.”

“I’m fine, Coach, it’s not that serious -”

“The answer is no. Look, Parker, I get it. But what I need is for you to sit your ass on the bench until you’re medically cleared, okay? Rest up over the weekend and then get me a certificate.”

“But --”

“Bench,” she points her finger. “Now. While you’re at it, make yourself useful and look over the drills.”

She shoves a clipboard at him.

Clutching it weakly, Peter hangs his head and sighs. 

"Ah, crap.” 

\---

The wait on the bench is as boring as he expected. 

He sits there, staring at the field as a sudden sense of impotence deflates the air from his chest.

Well, this sucks.

Sure he complains about exercise. And _yes_ he refers to sit-ups as devil worship on a regular basis, but that doesn’t mean he wants to sit on the sidelines;particularlywhile his team is so disheartened after their loss. Gone is the easy flow of banter between team-mates, the ripostes and the laughter. Save for the occasional grunt or heavy exhale, the team is fairly quiet. Even the few, seemingly bored onlookers on the bleachers are uncharacteristically quiet, neither cheering or heckling like normal. 

It’s as if a pall follows him to the uncomfortable steel bench on the edge of the field, Coach’s whistle ringing through the air.

What sits in his backpack weighs heavier on him than the uncharacteristic silence, but he manages to busy himself with the player charts and the formation sketches, even though curiosity has him feeling restless.

Retrieving the pencil from clip he makes his own adjustments, peering back up at the team sporadically, trying to visualise them in the positions he has in mind. He doesn’t know a lot about their opponents, Baruch, but he makes an internal note to study them, later.

Not that he has anything better to do, now that he’s been benched.

His cheeks burn at the thought of having to explain to the rest of the team. Although, most barely casts him a second glance as they run their drills, which is possibly even worse. Bucky and Wilson raise their hands to him as they pass, but it doesn’t really detract from the feeling of being on the outside, looking in.

The approving sounds Danvers makes when he passes his notes back to her later makes him feel better.

Sort of.

\----

It doesn’t take too long for Parker Luck to strike again.

Turns out it was hard to open his locker with a single good hand. If most of his friends were talking to each other they would have ganged up on him and made jokes about his misfortune, but as it were, he only received an eye roll from MJ and a look of pity from Shuri. He’d meant to catch up with Bucky in the locker room after practice, although the storm cloud that hovered over him had him guess that was probably for the best.

Their group was so divided and Peter did not like it. Seriously, it was like the damn twilight zone over here. 

And with the distraction of training over, all throughout class he can’t help but think of the letter in his backpack, mind going on overdrive on what that was about. Did he miss something about their finances? And what were the letters from the hospital about? Surely it had to be some misunderstanding.

May doesn’t keep things from Peter like that. It must be something to do with Ben.

“Mr Parker?”

“Present,” he mumbles idly, doodling question marks in his notebook.

“Oh, I am _thrilled_ that you are present, Mr Parker,” his history teacher drawls, “considering we’re halfway through class and I’ve now asked you twice about the abdication of the last Russian Tsar.”

“The what?” He asks, breaking out of his train of thought with a crash. “March fifteenth, nineteen-seventeen.”

“Not what I asked you, Mr Parker. But maybe you can tell me all about it in detention after school.”

“No,” Peter objects, mind jumping to the varsity game after school. “I can’t, I have --”

“Don’t make me double it,” his teacher scowls, visibly disappointed. “Mr Rogers, maybe you can answer who was supposed to succeed the position from Nicholas II?”

Steve turns slightly from his front row seat, offering Peter a sympathetic smile before answering.

“Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich, sir.”

Well, that’s just swell, Peter thinks, heart dropping to his feet. He folds his arms over the desk and drops his head down on it as the teacher praises Rogers. Detention. Not only would it go on his record and May be advised, but worst of all, he was going to run the risk of being late to meeting his team before the varsity match. Which would be fine, normally, if he wasn’t already like such an outlier from this morning.

And he disappointed a teacher who said Peter was an exemplary student in his last parent-teacher interview. He doesn't know what's worse.

The word _liability_ settles into his head and doesn't leave.

“Ah, crap,” he whispers to himself.

“Language, Parker!”

\----

He’s still thinking about it come lunch. There's a growing sense that he's missing parts of a picture that he previously thought was whole. The feeling just keeps getting bigger, darker, breaking him out of his concentration at odd moments, until it becomes a painful pit in his stomach. The noise of the halls and the frenetic energy of the students becomes too much. The maelstrom of anxiety and disappointment makes a mess of him, and so he squirrels himself away in the library to have a moments peace. 

It’s there that he finally gets the opportunity to take the folder from his backpack and retrieve the envelope that has baffled him all morning.

Looking to his surrounds to ensure there is no one around, he unseals the envelope carefully, removing and unfolding the paper inside with trepidation. He takes a deep breath as he reads the contents, hoping against hope it’s just a leftover payment for Ben’s treatment a couple years back. He's just doing what he always does and freaking himself out for nothing. It's gotta be.

It’s not.

It’s an invoice for a scan, addressed to May for a month ago. It's for nearly _two thousand dollars_.

Stomach turning to lead, he flips the page over and back again to see if there is more to read, something to explain what it’s for. It's just a request for payment, not itemised, nothing that would give Peter any kind of indication or peace of mind.

Surely this is some kind of mistake, he thinks, heart beating at an uncomfortable tempo, there must be plenty of May Parker’s in New York. Yeah. Like that one time they kept getting correspondence from the NRA despite no one in their family being a member. 

He drags his phone from his pocket and dials it, unthinking, hands trembling. It goes to voicemail. He hangs up before the tone begins, staring at his phone as.

It’s fine, he thinks, as a violent swarm begins buzzing in his stomach. It can wait till he gets home. May hasn’t been to the hospital in recent history, Peter would know about it. She’ll clear it up. 

He begins typing out a text anyway. Just to be sure.

_**< hey May-May** _

_**< just checking in** _

_**< kinda ran out on you this morn** _

He stares at his phone waiting for a response for longer than necessary, knowing full well that she’s at work and won’t be near her cell. After a few minutes he concedes that he's got a wait ahead of him and so in the interim, he reads the letter over again.

“What the fuck did you do now, PP?”

Startled out of his reverie, Peter blinks, looking up to find Natasha and Shuri approaching his little corner of the library. 

“Huh?” he asks dumbly.

“Your hand?” Shuri gestures at him as both girls help themselves to a bean bag, curling up like satisfied cats. Well, there goes his plans for peace and quiet, he thinks. 

“Oh, this?” He raises his brace-bound wrist, surreptitiously stashing the letter from the hospital and envelope back into his folder. “Football. Wrist sprain. Got tackled by some dude on steroids,” he slouches on his own bean bag and stretches his legs in front of him. “Which you would have known if either of you showed up.“

“What are you doing hiding here?” Natasha brushes his comments off, which he's willing to let slide, for now. “It’s macaroni day. You love macaroni day.”

“I know. I just... uh, well,” he brandishes the folder and aims for an air of casualness. “Economics. Yes. Just trying to get a step up on our assignment, you know me. Gotta remind Stark that I’m the brains of the operation.”

That makes Shuri’s eyes glitter with interest. Peter senses he has made a grave mistake.

“And how is _that_ going? Saw you getting into Stark’s car the other day.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively. 

“We were doing field research,” he replies warily, not appreciating the inference.

She shares a look with Nat that he supposes was supposed to be private, and it makes Peter feel deeply unsettled.

“Field research.”

“Yes. For the assignment.”

“Field research,” Nat bites her bottom lip in what appears to be a poor effort to suppress a smile. “Is that what you call sucking his co--”

“Stop right there.”

“Are you sure don’t want me to talk about his huge, engorged d--”

“ -- _Nope_ , wash your mouth out,” he kicks his legs out at her as the girls snicker amongst themselves. “Alright, enough you clowns. What are you two doing in here anyway, besides torturing me?”

“Looking for you, Peter Pan,” Shuri says. “We miss you.”

“So, you’re not trying to avoid Barnes?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, retrieving something from her backpack and thrusts it against his chest. unexpectedly before he can ascertain what it is. He grapples with it for a second with his good hand. Whatever it is, it’s warm. He grapples with it with his one good hand and looks down. It’s a plastic container, the lid is beaded with condensation as he pries it off curiously.

He gasps upon revealing its contents, clutching the container close to his chest, heart soaring with love.

“You got me the mac n Cheese!”

“I had to sweet-talk the lunch lady to get that for you. Told her you had some kind of congenital flare-up. Don’t say I don’t do nothin’ for ya.”

“You’re the best.”

“You’re welcome.” She looks disinterested in his praise, but he can tell

Like a good friend, he shares the portion of cheesy, lukewarm between the three of them, passing the small, plastic fork around. Even mostly cold and chewy it tastes really damn good. He swallows his first mouthful with a satisfied sigh, the restless pit in his stomach subsiding somewhat with the first bite of real food since that morning when he'd shoved a whole banana in his mouth on the train.

“I love pasta,” he speaks around a full mouth of half-masticated carbs, swallowing roughly. He points the fork at Natasha. “Wait, is this to keep me from asking about you and Bucky?”

“Yep,” Natasha nods, taking the fork and container, shovelling in a sizeable portion into her mouth with a sigh. 

“You’re going to tell me later, right?”

Shuri scoffs. “Like you’re not in on it.”

“In on what?”

Natasha elbows Shuri who holds her hands up in surrender.

“In on _what_?” Peter repeats, looking between them, confused. “Tash?”

“Nothing,” she shakes her head, passing him the remainder of the pasta. “Eat your macaroni, PP. I hunted and gathered that meal for your skinny ass.”

“But --” he cuts himself off when his friend shakes her head minutely at him. “Thanks,” he says finally, letting it go.

He does eat the rest of his pasta, however reluctantly, the taste not as good as it was before. The conversation moves on to weekend plans and schoolwork, but his mind still lingers on the odd exchange.

He’ll ask later.

\----

The bell rings shortly thereafter and Shuri parts ways with them as he and Natasha head to Econ. It’s not much to look forward to, sure, considering he now has a detention flanking this last class, but he’s at least proud of all the preliminary work he’s done. The outlook for the evening is still promising.

And despite their brief moment of understanding the other day, Peter can’t _wait_ for Stark to eat his words.

Bucky doesn’t spare a glance at his girlfriend when they enter the classroom, keeping his gaze trained firmly on his desk as she breezes past, heading to the back row. 

Peter hesitates in the entry however, torn between his two friends, unsure if he should - or could - say anything. In the end he settles for squeezing Bucky’s shoulder as he passes, receiving a private, appreciative smile in return. It’s just bizarre, Peter worries, sitting down next to Natasha at the back, holding back a heavy sigh. Those two have been practically joined at the hip since Peter had met them two years ago, dating since practically forever. It's none of his business, but what's with all of the secrecy? Shuri seems to know what's up.

Before he can ruminate on them, or on the letter, Potts and Rhodes enter with their usual fanfare, talking animatedly amongst themselves. The red-head snickers at something the other said, hair falling around her shoulders as she shoves at him good-naturedly. Stark usually follows them in with his signature slouch and scowl, but is nowhere to be seen.

Huh. Maybe he’s running late. Others shuffle in and slump in their seats like only teenagers could do on a Friday afternoon, and Peter doesn't try and stare at the clock or anything. Miss Ahn begins the class and Stark still doesn’t turn up. When he thinks about it, he's not sure if he's seen the other boy at all today

He stares at the chair Tony would usually occupy, a weird feeling in his chest, hot and unwieldy. He pats his sternum, trying to clear it. Of _course_ Stark would blow off class on a Friday afternoon, for a second Peter actually forgot that Tony was a world-class truant. Not that Tony's spotty attendance record is of any interest to Peter, but it sure evaporated whatever pride he'd has in his research.

“Where’s your partner?” Miss Ahn queries later, surveying his research and the rough graph Peter is scribbling into in his notebook, black ink a mess all over the page.

“Was hoping you could tell me that,” Peter answers, looking up.

She shrugs. “Must be unwell. You okay on your own?”

“Yeah, of course,” Peter nods. “I mean, who is carrying this thing anyway, right?”

“Good one, Parker,” she snorts, as if it were a joke, and switching her attention to Natasha’s paperwork beside him. 

It wasn't quite the reaction he'd had in mind, like maybe there was a funny in-joke about their contrasting work ethics but. Maybe she's not in the mood, but it causes Peter to feel weird anyway, suddenly itching to bring out his phone to text Tony and berate him for being a slacker. _Unwell_. Yeah right, Peter has never seen that guy sick in the two years he’s known him. Not even a sniffle. 

He doesn’t, though, text Tony that is, forgetting all about it when his phone buzzes first. All too aware of Miss Ahn's strict no-phone policy, he surreptitiously reads the text under the table. For a crazy moment he thought maybe it actually was from Tony, like he'd read his mind or something, but it's just May responding to his text from earlier.

**> All good bubs!**

**> Don’t forget to call me if u need to be picked up**

Thumbs hovering over his phone, Peter hesitates, wondering if he should be upfront with her, about his detention, and about the letter he took and read without her knowledge.

He decides to keep it simple, replying with a thumbs-up emoji. If she had something to tell him about their finances surely she would be upfront with him, after everything they’ve been through. 

Surely. 

He pockets his phone and wonders if he should look into getting a job.

Just in case.

“Phone away please, Parker! One and only warning!”

“Ah, crap.”

\----

By the time he’s at Flash’s party, those worries are the furthest thing from his mind. In fact, he’s feeling pretty damn good right now.

The party isn’t exactly his scene, sure, more booze, illicit activities and drunken gyrating than he would usually prefer on a Friday night - and definitely more puke than what he is comfortable with - but it’s hard to feel too down when the mood is high and he is surrounded by his friends. He’s truly buzzing with good cheer and enthusiasm, riding on the high of the varsity teams win against the opposition.

It was with raucous cheer that spirited hordes of students assembled into cars and made their way to Flash’s place for the party. Even Bucky seemed to have livened up. By the time the festivities were underway, there was an infectious smile on his face, back to his cheeky and boisterous self. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, he thinks, as Bucky throws an arm around both Peter and Steve and leads them into the kitchen for more ‘refreshments’. They didn't play at all, and were in fact losers the night before, but everyone still greets them with fist-bumps and a small measure of revere, as if they were worth celebrating. It's kinda weird and he's not a fan of all the attention. Peter hasn't attended many of these afterparties before, too shy to take someone up on the invitation, not used to the crowds and not sure of how he is expected to act at these things. For wherever he now sits on the social spectrum, Peter at heart is still just a deeply awkward person. He's still that weird, loser he was before high school, back when he had no friends and no one would invite him to their birthday party. Now he has an all-access pass of sorts - one that he doesn't really want. Even in this very moment, surrounded by his team and friends, part of him wishes he were at home watching a movie with just one friend, or playing a video game alone.

The joys of introversion and social anxiety, a Peter Parker story.

In the kitchen there are a handful of students raiding the fridge and the pantry, but they all part like the red sea at their arrival. It doesn't make him feel good, the slaps on his back or the acknowledging nods. Leaning against the bench next to an impressive array of liquor is Wilson, speaking with Quill.

There is a manly exchange of one-armed hugs and back-pats and Wilson grabs a pair of solo cups from the counter. He offers one to Steve who declines, the other to Peter. He shakes his head after peering into its contents. It’s brown, bubbly, and has a sharp tang to when Peter brings it to his nose. Alcohol.

“You sure?” 

“Can’t,” he explains with a wry smile, passing it back. “Messes with my meds. But thanks.”

“Coke it is,” Sam puts the cup down on the counter and picks up another filled with what appears to be full of soda. 

“Great, more for me,” Bucky says, taking the cup with alcohol from the counter, tipping his head and chugging the entire thing back, slamming the plastic cup back on the counter as if it were a goblet. “Thanks, bird brain.”

“Welcome, weasel.”

“Weasel?" Bucky looks at Steve presses a hand to his chest. “You hear that? Spousal abuse is what that is.”

“Hey, at least _your_ spouse turns up to class,” Peter mutters, sipping his drink, sullen all of a sudden. “Mine’s already getting in his practice of being a lazy mooch.”

Bucky clamps his free hand on Peter's shoulder, squeezing tight.

“But he’s a _hot_ mooch, though, am I right?”

Steve and Peter send him twin, incredulous looks. “What, no,” he grimaces. “Don’t say that, dude.”

“Oh, come on. I know he’s a total shit-head but he’s nice to look at, don’t you think?”

“Uh, no, I think you need to get your eyesight checked.”

Wilson looks between them, visibly perturbed. To his side, Quill holds his hands up to interject, beer sloshing out the side of the cup down the sleeve of his red leather jacket. “He’s not my type, so I don’t have a horse in this race, but you have to admit that Stark is at least passably attractive. And he has a great ass. Like, a _superb_ bubble-butt _._ ”

“Are you sure he’s not your type?” Wilson deadpans.

“Not sure, now that I’ve said it.”

“Oh my god,” Peter recoils from his friends, something in his chest going hot. “Shut up, please.”

“It really is a nice ass,” Bucky agrees, mostly to himself. “Just sayin’, if I was single I wouldn’t say no.”

“You both are severely delusional. Get help.”

“Oh, I love that game,” someone says from behind.

Startled, Peter whirls around, coming nearly nose-to-nose with Thor. 

“Oh, h-hey, Thor,” he gulps, stepping back a few inches to get some space, heart hammering in his chest. “H-How are you? Great game tonight.”

At a quick - or not so quick - glance, the senior appears to have freshly changed into jeans and a suede jacket, his hair slightly damp from showering after the game and even under the smell of smoke and sweat from the crowd Peter can smell his fancy cologne. He looks good, Peter notes, stomach contracting as their eyes meet, just for a second. Yeah, really good.

_Stop leering, don’t be a creep._

A group of seniors follow Thor and join the group ever growing, people Peter had never spoken to and admired from afar. Strange and Wong, Cage, and even Shuri’s brother, the varsity captain, T’Challa. It's, yeah - there is a lot of new, cool people and not a lot of room to hide in. He can't help but feel a little in awe and a little cowed as Thor sides up to him, throwing an arm around him.

“Wasn’t it?” Thor grins, accepting a solo cup from Hope, another senior, the captain of the female varsity team.

“This is my friend, Peter Parker!” The blond booms above the noise of the party, sculling his drink and tugging Peter close. His whole body tingles, stomach swooping at the feel of their sides pressed together. He wants to correct the older boy, say _just Peter is fine_ , but the flow of conversation goes on while he deliberates, opportunity missed. 

“You’re on JV, right?” Hope enquires, nodding towards his injured wrist. “I’ve seen you play.”

“Oh, yeah,” he raises his injured hand, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “Clearly nothing to write home about.”

“Happens to everyone,” Hope replies, offering him a kind smile. “You’re pretty good.”

“One of our best,” Steve chimes in. “Best footwork in the team.”

“That’s not true," he objects quickly, desperate to shake off the weight of all the eyes on him. “Tonight’s about you guys,” he raises his cup in acknowledgment to the varsity crew. “You were amazing and deserved the win.”

His comments prompt cheers amongst the crowd, the stragglers hanging around the kitchen joining in, clapping even if they’re not sure what for. At once the music seems louder, the smoke in the air more potent, and it makes Peter feel braver, like maybe he's actually a part of this group, maybe for once, he fits in. The courage burns hot in his chest for as long as he gets to have it, like a genies wish, or a crossroads deal, however temporary the feeling is.

For a few moments its all shots and sculling back glasses of hard liquor. Peter cheers his friends, even as he sips his soda and even goes to toast Cage, but freezes when he feels the warmth of someones breath on his ear, the scratch of stubble on his jaw.

“Can I get a moment, Peter?”

He tilts his head up to look the older boy in the eye.

Thor smiles. “Just wanted to continue our conversation from the other day.”

“Uh, yeah,” he nods, face going hot, gesturing to the room over. He puts his drink down on the nearest surface and follows the other boy into the living room, weaving through throngs of drunk, dancing teens. 

Thor leads them to a sofa that has a couple of freshmen already upon it. However, upon sighting the quarterback, they quickly vacate it in deference that Peter would find funny, if he wouldn’t do the same thing. His entire body buzzes as Thor sits close to him, the bass from the music beating through his chest, the peripheral sense of bodies and eyes on them. It feels surreal. 

“So.”

“We got kinda interrupted, didn’t we?” Peter smiles, settling in against the cushions, careful of his hand. “The other day.”

The older boy nods, shifting his knee closer on the sofa. “Yes. I was meaning to ask you something,” 

“Yes?” he asks, leaning in, trying his best to appear casual, and not at all eager, even as his thoughts go wild with hope.

“I was thinking, because we both have similar interests, we both play football, and are outliers on our teams, I mean that in the _best_ of ways...”

“Yes,” Peter nods, inching closer to hear him better over the music, or so he tells himself, enduring the beer on Thor’s breath, because _this was it_. He is going to ask him out, he just knows it.

“-- I was thinking you’d like to maybe join me and --”

“-- I’d love to --”

“ -- train with me sometime?”

“ _Yes._ Wait.” Peter blinks. “Train,” he says, heart slowing to a deafening thud. “Like, for football?”

“Yes,” Thor nods eagerly. “You’re very good. I think we could learn a lot from one another.”

“We could?” Peter asks confusedly, raising his injured hand for what feels like the millionth time that day. “You sure about that?”

“Without a doubt.”

The fire inside Peter’s belly drops to a listless simmer. Oh. Yeah. Of course, he smiles, feeling just a little stupid, head clearing of impotent hope. Of course that’s what he wanted. Thor wasn’t ever going to ask Peter on a date -- it was dumb of him to think that was even a remote possibility. How ludicrous to think otherwise. Thor was like, _otherworldly_ in his beauty and kindness and Peter was, he’s --

Ordinary.

He swallows roughly, trying to dislodge the disappointment stuck in his throat. Hey, at least Thor respected him. Maybe they could be friends. That’s something, right? He could do that.

“That sounds good,” he nods, meeting Thor’s expectant look with a smile. “You give me the time and place. I’ll be there.”

Thor produces his phone from his pocket, offering it to Peter to type his name in. He feels more self-conscious when he has to title himself as _Peter Parker, Football_ due to the sheer volume of existing Peter’s in his phone, as if that might make him stand out from the others. The embarrassment of his earlier assumption fulminates through his whole body, crackling down to his fingertips when he clicks out of the contacts. On Thor’s lockscreen is a photo of him embracing some curly-haired guy.

They’re kissing.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” he flushes, passing the phone back quickly, folding his hands back into his lap.

“Yes, that’s Bruce,” Thor smiles down at his phone before pocketing it. Peter has seen that look before. Bucky and Nat. Ben and May. There is no periphery in that kind of look, all steel and softness at the same time. It's beautiful, fierce. And sad. 

“Oh," he smiles, even as his heart drops. "He from back home?”

“No, he goes to NYU. But we met when he was vacationing in my home town.”

Now Peter feels really freaking stupid. Of course Thor would be dating some brainy college guy. As if a guy as nice and handsome as Thor would be single. The point is only punctuated by Thor sliding up closer, bringing up an entire folder of photos dedicated to their tight embraces contrasted upon scenic rolling hills. Peter can't help but smile as he slides from one photo from another. Even in the ugly, blurred pictures taken spontaneously the two look like a perfect match. 

"Oh, wow, that’s nice. Well, I’m gonna,” he points his thumb towards the kitchen. “See you around?”

Thor nods and waves his phone at him, oblivious to Peter’s inner self reproach. When he stands he catches sight of his reflection in the nearby glass cabinet and can't help but grimace. Christ. His hair his damp and contracting into sweaty tendrils at his hairline where he has been sweating, his jacket askew on his frame. The feeling of inadequacy only worsens when he looks back to the sofa, some senior already taking the spot he vacated.

“You’re such an idiot,” he mumbles to himself, wiping his hand down his face before trudging back to the kitchen to join his friends.

“What was that all about, hmm?” Bucks asks once he returns.

Peter shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing.”

He picks his cup back up from the counter and takes a large gulp in hopes of bringing down the heat from his body. Someone’s put ice in it and tastes a bit odd. Frowning, he sips it again. Still odd.

It must be going flat, he thinks, paying no mind to it, even when Drax passes him another coke that tastes just as strange.

Must be the ice.

\----

Turns out Peter really is a fucking idiot, because the weird taste was _alcohol_.

It becomes immediately evident that he’d maybe picked up the wrong cup or had his drink spiked, as soon as his head to start to swim. It only takes a couple of cups of whatever is mixed into the soda for his muscles to relax pleasantly, his head to get floaty and for his coordination to go to shit. The alcohol versus meds is a tested theory. He knows this is bad. It only ends in puke or blackouts - or both. But frankly, by the time he’s realised his mistake, he’s too uninhibited to care and accepts another drink when someone passes it to him. What was one more, anyway? Hasn’t he had a shitty day? Doesn’t he deserve it? Whatever the consequences are, Peter accepts it.

Fuck. This is a bad idea.

He’s not proud of it. Not when he attempts to dance to the music with zero skill. Not when he tells Bucky how much he loves him. Not when he goes to the bathroom and spends way too long holding his dick while staring at the wall.

It’s not until someone bangs on the door that he realizes that he finished peeing a while ago and it’s probably time to zip up and rejoin his friends. 

Some junior he vaguely recognizes from his History class glares daggers at him when he finally unlocks the bathroom door and apologizes for the wait. The room spins when he finally starts moving again, the people in the hall appearing close and far away at the same time as he tries to walk straight down the hall. Are they looking at him? He can’t tell, but he tries his best to appear sober in any case, nodding pleasantly at anyone he passes. No one nods back.

On his way downstairs he has a misstep and he steadies himself, clutching the railing with his injured hand without thinking. His eyes sting as pain shoots up his arm.

It fucking _hurts_.

It’s as he’s standing alone at the base of the stairs, cradling his arm to his chest that he thinks maybe it’s best to find his friends and head either to his own home, or crash at Bucky’s. He’s over his brief accidental foray into underage drinking, already, unsure who exactly for this fun and why.

The uncertainly is amplified moreso when he wanders the downstairs area and can’t locate a single one of his friends. The kitchen is devoid of familiar faces, the living room a crowd of freshman and seniors and tracks Peter doesn't know. He feels alone, despite being in a full room, skin hot and sure he’s sweating under his arms. The air in the room is stifling, the music feels like it’s far away and up close at the same time.

There’s a buzzing in his pocket at the same time he wonders where they have all gone. It’s from Steve.

**> took buck n co home, couldn’t find you  
> call if u need a ride?**

“Ah, crap,” he says, wondering how he is gonna get home. He’s not gonna call May to pick him up, no way, not like this, with his hoodie soaked with sweat and a clear intoxicated state that might be expected of anyone else his age - but not him.

So he stands frozen in indecision in Flash’s living room for an unknown amount of time, pursing his lips and swinging his arms by his side as if that might help him think. Fresh air might help. Yeah, he thinks, looking towards the wide, glass sliding doors that lead to the backyard. It doesn't look nearly as chaotic out thee. He should get some fresh air.

As he heads to the back deck he passes Ned and MJ, the two sitting at the dining table, looking bored and like they’d rather be anywhere else. 

“Hey guys!” He says, probably a little too loudly, waving. “Are you having fun?”

MJ stares. “Peter, are you _drunk_?”

“What? No.” He stands still and maintains unwavering eye contact to try to prove his soberness. It mustn’t work too well because she rises from her seat, her lips turning downwards.

“Alright, yes,” he concedes quickly, “but it’s okay, don’t worry, it was an accident. I didn’t mean it.” He scratches his cheek before pointing to the sliding door on the other side of the room that leads to the backyard. “I’m gonna get some air.”

“You do that.” MJ stands, sending a look to Ned that he doesn’t have the wherewithal to interpret. “I’m going to get you some water.”

“Aw, you’re the best,” he says, heartfelt. He squeezes Ned’s shoulder as he passes. “You’re the best too, Ned. You’re like, _literally_ amazing.”

“Uhh...thanks? You okay, Pete?”

“I’m great!”

If Ned says anything else, Peter doesn’t hear it, accepting another cup that someone from Bio passes him. It’s a bit of a struggle to open the sliding door with one hand and with fingers that don’t listen to his brain, but he manages to fling it open after a few moments with a slam.

The first thing he notices is that the night air is delightfully cold and it feels amazing on his overheated skin. The second is that there is someone leaning on the deck railing directly in front of him, the line of their torso long, tight jeans hugging their impressive ass. 

The person’s head is bowed while they speak in low tones with some dark-haired girl, and although Peter is never this brazen - he blames the alcohol - he finds himself tilting his head, a little intoxicated and and a little entranced by the sight. That is until the person straightens up and turns to light their cigarette away from the wind.

Any interest quickly turns to dust in his stomach.

Ugh. It’s Stark.

“Oh look,” Peter says drunkenly, pausing in the doorway. “It’s my deadbeat husband.”

Tony seems to recognise him at the same moment, if his exasperated huff was anything to read into. The first thing that Peter notices, illuminated by the porch light, is the wry smile forming around the cigarette in his mouth. The second is that the girl he was speaking to scurries away once she’s lost Tony’s attention. The third is that there is deep, purple bruising alongside his jaw, a graze on cheek. His lip is split.

“My princess,” Tony greets with a mock bow, speech muffled as he speaks around the cigarette. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Peter folds his arms over his chest and leans against the house in a way he hopes appears disapproving, but sober. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh. Am I not allowed to be here?” Tony leans against the railing with ease, as if it were his own home. “Hmm? Am I not one of the _cool_ kids?”

“I’m not the party police,” Peter holds his hands up in surrender. “Just wondering why you can turn up to a party but you can’t turn up to class.”

“What - Econ? I had other priorities. Places to be. I’d explain, but I don’t want to.”

“What, like getting into another fight?” Peter steps forward towards Tony in what he thinks is a straight line, gesturing to his face. Priorities. “Why are you always getting into fights? Do you have anger problems or something?”

Tony huffs a laugh, blowing smoking upwards into the night sky.

“Yeah, something like that. Why are you bothered? Did you miss me, dear?”

“You wish,” Peter snorts, leaning beside him against the railing. “I just want this assignment done as quickly as possible so we can get a divorce. Like, hello.”

“’Hello’?” Tony repeats blankly, leaning in to sniff the contents of Peter’s cup. “Jesus -- Parker, how much have you had to drink?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” He throws his hands up, sloshing some of the liquid over the edge of the cup. “It’s a party. Why does it matter?”

“Because you look like you’re about to run over a garden gnome and commit to a twelve-step program.”

“What does that mean?”

Tony sighs, extinguishing out his cigarette and throwing the butt into the grass. He stalks forward until he grips Peter’s shirt, tugging him down to sit on the porch stairs with more force than strictly necessary. 

Peter objects, “What’re you --”

Tony calloused fingers brush against his lips, miming zipping them shut. 

“Shh. Zip it and sit down before you fall down, dumbass. It means you look like shit.”

“Wow. I’ll have you know that ‘shit’ is my default look,” Peter says, gesturing down to himself with his braced hand, laughing to himself as he settles on the slightly damp wooden stairs. His lips tingle where Tony just touched them.

To his surprise Tony doesn’t immediately leave Peter to his own devices like he thought would. Instead, he sits down beside him on the top stair, the leather of his jacket creaking as he gets comfortable. Quiet falls between them as Tony retrieves another cigarette from a crumpled pack and lights it, the glow from the flame briefly casting shadows over the contours of his cheeks. 

Meanwhile, Peter sips his drink, listening to the muffled music from inside, hoping to drown out the image of Tony’s ass branded in his brain. He can’t help but think back to what Quill and Bucky were saying, and agrees it would be a great ass if it didn’t belong to such a -- well, an ass.

_Not that I can judge_ , Peter thinks morosely. No one is going to write odes about his butt. Or his anything, really. Except his footwork, so it would seem. He’s sure that would look just wonderful on a Grindr profile. _Peter Parker, sixteen, an orphan with great footwork. Knows every line of the Empire Strikes Back._

Christ. He doesn’t even have Grindr. Well, he downloaded it once, but then immediately deleted it within, like, five minutes when some beefy guy named Dale sent him a picture of his erect cock and asked him if he wanted to choke on it. But everyone gets that kinda thing, right?

Nearby, someone pukes in the bushes.

Tony looks over curiously, clutching on the railing, before clearing his throat.

“So, what are you --”

“...do I really look like shit?” Peter interrupts.

“What?”

He turns, heart dropping to his toes, even as Tony looks perplexed, inching back against the railing.

“Uh, going to need you to back up, Parker,” he presses a finger between Peter’s eyebrows, making a _bzzz_ sound. “I know you’re drunk, but stop being weird. Rewind. Factory reset.”

“No seriously,” Peter endears, shifting closer. “Is my head misshapen or something? You’re a dick, you’ll tell me.”

“Yes,” Tony says seriously, poking him again, making Peter go cross-eyed. “You look like what would happen if E.T had sex with a wookie. I thought you knew that.”

“ _Really?_ Oh my god _,_ ” Peter whispers, batting at his face with his bad hand. “Is it the ears? It’s the ears, isn’t it. I’m literally Dumbo.”

“What? I’m joking, idiot. Stop it,” Tony croaks, shrinking back even further. Arm outstretched, he waves his cigarette, wafting the smoke at Peter as if it were sage in a ritual cleansing. “Stop with the eyes.”

“What eyes?” 

“The Bambi eyes. Y’know, big, dumb, watery? I’m immune to it.”

Peter whips his glasses off his nose, turning them around. “I’m not giving you any eyes. Or maybe I am. I can’t see.”

The other boy swears under his breath, then his vision returns as his glasses are placed back on his face. The world goes mostly clear, the lenses slightly smudged, but he can still clearly see Tony rubbing his face tiredly.

“Should have known you’d be literally the worst drunk. Right, Bambi, where are the rest of your crew of future school dropouts?”

Peter spreads his arms out wide, fluttering his fingers. “Gone.”

“Gone? Who drove you here?”

“My friend, Madison. She’s amazing and she _drove_ me here.”

His reflexes are clearly shot, because he’s way too slow to stop Tony from swiping the red cup from his hands and tossing out the contents onto the grass. 

“Hey!” He pouts.

“Nuh-uh, no ‘hey’. That’s what you get for quoting Parks and Rec and being a pain in my ass.”

“I can’t believe you got that reference,” he sniffs. “Maybe you have some culture after all.”

“Everyone has Netflix, dipshit.”

Without warning, Tony reaches over and rifles his hands through Peter’s jacket.

“Hey, wait. Stop,” Peter protests, squirming when Tony palms his front jean pockets, patting upwards to Peter’s hoodie pockets. “What are you doing? Don’t feel me up, pervert.”

“I’m not -- oh my god,” Tony waves Peter’s phone in his face. “What’s your passcode, idiot?”

“Why? You gonna steal it?”

“So I can call May to pick up your ass.”

“Wait,” Peter shakes his head, retrieving his phone with a quick snatch and clutching it stubbornly to his chest. “No. You can’t call her.”

“Why not?”

“She can’t see me like this,” Peter gestures to himself.

“What, like a fucking mess?”

“Yes.”

Tony steals the phone back with a quick swipe. “Surprise, bitch. It’s not all that different from how you usually look.”

Reaching over, desperately, he tries to grab it back, not fast enough when Tony slaps his hands away and holds the device up out of reach.

“Relax,” Tony twirls the device in his hand. “My parents catch me wasted all the time.”

He tries to rise to snatch his phone back, but Tony has a warm hand clamped on his thigh like a vice, using his strength to hold Peter down. Had he had more coordination and good sense, he would have brushed him off, but with the alcohol coursing through his veins he struggles in vain. “ _Tony_. She can’t _,”_ leaning forward in a last ditch attempt, arm outstretched to clutching at Tony’s fingers. 

It brings him closer to the other boy than he would have ever dared to be, Tony’s hair brushes his cheek as he reaches up, their thighs and shoulders pressed together, faces inches apart. When Tony speaks he can smell the lingering nicotine on his breath. 

“Why is it such a big deal?”

“ _Because._ For once in your life can you just listen to me?”

A knot tightens in his chest when Tony doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he stares, still and quietly, eyes roving over Peter in a way that makes him feel undressed. Vulnerable.

“Okay, drama queen,” he says finally, the usual bite lacking from his words. To his relief he passes Peter back his phone and takes his hand from his thigh. “Fine. Become a statistic.”

“Thank you,” Peter clutches his phone to his chest, heart rate coming back down to earth. He clears his throat, trying to appear cool and collected. “You can stop sitting so close to me now, by the way.”

Tony splutters, offended.

“You’re sitting close to _me_. Trust me, Parker, the last thing I want is to be breathing in whatever cheap liquor is literally exuding from your pores right now --”

“-- _There_ you are, loser,” a voice comes from behind. 

They turn at the same time, bumping heads.

“Ow.”

MJ approaches, brandishing a water bottle like a sword, her expression thunderous. 

“I’ve been looking for you. Drink this.” She passes the bottle to Peter and looks to Tony pointedly. “Is this your doing?” 

“Oh _sure_ , like I’d give him booze for free,” he stands, putting his cigarette out in Peter’s empty cup, raising it in a toast to MJ. “Alright, your turn. He’s your responsibility now. Bye.”

“Nuh-uh, hang on. Where do you think you’re going?” MJ asks, gripping Tony by his jacket as he tries to walk by her. The boy tries to shift and side-step her, but her hold doesn’t budge. 

“I’m going do what I came here for and get blackout drunk. Sound good? Good.”

“And how is Pete going to get home?”

Tony tries to pull back, but MJ’s grip on the material is firm. He sighs, jaw set as his tone turns stern. “Not my problem, Jones. Me and him? Not friends. You and him? _Friends_. Work it out.”

"I don’t have a car or money for a cab. You gonna let him walk home alone?”

“Sure am.”

Once he’s sure he’s going to remain upright he stands and holds his hands out placatingly, blinking at the pair against the porch light. “It’s okay,” he assures them. “I can walk to the subway. Wouldn’t want to leave any _residue_ in Tony’s perfect vehicle.”

MJ points at Peter, huffing at Tony. Misunderstanding, Peter grabs her finger and pulls on it.

“Oh, come on,” Tony scoffs as MJ snatches her finger back. “I’m here to have a good time. I haven’t even had a drink yet.”

“Perfect,” MJ says, gripping Peter by his upper arms and pushing him towards Tony. “Take him home, come back and get wasted. Everyone wins.”

“It’s fine, I said I can walk,” he interjects again, stepping sideways into the railing. “See? I don’t need your help.”

The two share a look before Tony tilts his head back and groans despairingly into the night.

“Fuck _me_. You owe me, Jones. Big time.”

“Take it off your tab, Stark.”

With a world weary sigh, Tony grips Peter by the upper arm and pulls him back into the house. “You are the worst husband ever,” he seethes, turning to point a finger in his face. “I’m getting the kid in the divorce.”

Peter tries not to stumble to keep up with the boy’s furious pace. 

“Molly’s all yours.”

\----

For the second time that week Peter finds himself a passenger in Stark’s car, quiet and lulled by the grumbling engine and easy music. It’s twice more than he ever expected to be in this position. 

By the time they are waiting at a McDonalds drive-thru, Peter is no more sober than he was before was unceremoniously shoved into Tony’s passenger seat twenty minutes ago, his head still a swarm of thoughts he can’t catch, inhibitions shot and his mouth dry as fuck.

“Eat up,” Tony says after he’s paid at the window, throwing a paper bag at him. 

“What’s this,” Peter yawns, breaking from his stupor and inspecting the contents.

“A cheeseburger,” Tony says, unwrapping his own burger and taking a bite into it, steering out into the traffic with a single hand. “Gonna assume you’ve had one before. Might soak up some of the alcohol in your system.”

“I don’t have any money on me.”

“It’s like two bucks, Oliver Twist. Unclench, okay, I can afford to feed you McDonalds.”

Tony passes him a portion of fries and turns the radio up. It’s playing Belinda Carlisles’ _Deep, Deep Ocean_. 

Unsure, Peter picks at a fry idly, tearing it in half, grease smearing over his fingers. “I don’t want to owe you anything. I feel like I’m building up a tab here.”

“Look, just don’t throw up in my girl, and we’ll call it even.”

“I’m not gonna throw up.”

Probably.

Tony side-eyes him as he changes gears, undoubtedly sensing his dishonesty. “You better not. I will actually murder you and leave you on the side of the road.”

“No you won’t,” Peter unwraps the burger, taking a delicate bite to quell the rising discontent in his stomach. “You’ll make May sad if you kill me. You like her too much to make her sad.”

“You don’t know that.”

Peter chews a handful of fries and wipes the salt on one of the napkins in the bottom of the bag. “Yeah, I do,” he pokes Tony in the arm, feeling suddenly brave. “I have you all figured out, sucker.”

“That right?” Tony glances over to him again before changing lanes. “So. Is May gonna kick your ass for coming home drunk or something?”

It’s a clear change of subject, and Peter’s feeling magnanimous enough to let it slide. Considering he just got fed again and all, it’s the least he could do. Resting back on the headrest he tilts his gaze towards Tony, watching as he focuses on the road, stealing glances at Peter from the corner of his eye. 

“Nah,” he says finally. “She’ll be disappointed, but she’ll get over it.”

“Then why all the doom and gloom back there?”

Peter shrugs, keeping his eyes trained on the traffic ahead of them. He’s not sober yet, but he’s already feeling a bucketload of regret for his behaviour. “She works late. Not gonna call her out on a Friday night because I’m an idiot who can’t hold my liquor.”

“That is an unfortunate combination,” Tony agrees.

“What about your parents? Do they get mad if they know you’ve been drinking?”

“My parents are always mad.”

“Sounds like someone I know.”

"I’ll have you know I’m only mad around fools,” Tony frees a hand to snap his fingers in Peter’s direction, “which we’ve already established is what you are. I mean, drinking without a ride home? Dumb move.”

“I didn’t mean to drink.”

“How do you not _mean_ to drink but get drunk anyway?”

“I thought it was just coke.”

“Do you mean coke, like,” Tony presses his finger against one nostril and inhales sharply.

“What, _no_ ,” Peter says, mortified. “Like _so_ da, you jackass. God. I don’t do that.”

“Not judging if you did --” Tony huffs. 

“-- I didn’t --”

“So then you had a mixed drink. How did you fuck that up?”

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugs, feeling a little bashful and a lot stupid. “I don’t drink much. Guess I’m a lightweight as well as an idiot.”

“You’re a rum virgin,” Tony concludes. “Tastes like stale piss, that about right?”

“Yep.”

“So you’ve never had, like, real alcohol?”

“I’ve _had_ alcohol.”

“Like what?” Tony presses, changing lanes, brown eyes big under the city lights glittering with either mischief or curiosity, or both.

“Like beer,” he shifts on the passenger seat, not sure why there is something ballooning in his chest, like he had something to prove. “And, I don’t know, like, port.”

“ _Port_.”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with port?”

“It’s what old people on a budget drink.”

Peter shrugs, feeling that something in his chest deflate, his lips feeling loose with the truth. 

“It’s what my uncle drank.”

With more intuition than he knew he was capable of, the other boy must sense the weight of the past tense used because he sensibly doesn’t respond to that. Even the music is kept at a low volume, it seems respectful, but Peter wishes it were loud enough to stop the nervous realization that he’s just revealed a glimpse of something very, very personal.

Tony, thankfully, doesn’t mention it. 

For now, is the worry. Tired and anxious, he sips the remainder of the water bottle MJ gave him slowly to make sure he doesn’t say anything again.

Over the duration of the drive the lights of the traffic become clearer, his head coming back down to earth. He’s in a car again with Tony Stark of all people and he reeks of sweat and alcohol and there’s now grease stains all over his hoodie. What has his life come to, he wonders.

Peter checks his phone when they pull up outside his apartment block, on its last legs of battery. It’s just after three in the morning. May should well and truly be back home from work and asleep by now. 

He hopes she didn’t wait up for him. She does that sometimes just to offer him a late meal, or to hear about his day. He unbuckles his seatbelt and makes to leave before he has a lightbulb moment, realizing he’s forgotten something that’s been bugging him all day. Digging through his backpack, he retrieves his folder of Econ notes and presses it against Tony’s chest.

“Here.”

Tony’s hands rise to clutch it loosely, a grimace on his face. 

“Do me a favor, ‘kay, and don’t hand me things.”

“Why, because of my cooties?”

“Yes. Christ, this thing is heavy. What is it, a love letter?”

“It’s research notes for the assignment.”

“Wow. So you can read _and_ write,” Tony gasps dramatically. “Be still my beating heart.”

“Shut up and just read it,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Let me know what you think. Or don’t. Look, thanks for the food and driving me back. I owe you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tony slips the folder into the glove compartment before glaring at Peter pointedly. “Like, literally. Do not mention it to anyone or I’m coming after you. Got it?”

“Aw, tough guy,” Peter feebly holds his fist up in front of his face like a boxer. “You wanna tussle, huh?” 

“Get the fuck out of my car already, god,” Tony throws a greasy balled up napkin at him. “Oh, and give May a kiss for me, would ya?”

Peter cringes, opening the car door. "Ugh. Did I say I owe you? I meant I loathe you.”

“Likewise, princess. Go on now, shoo, don’t trip on your way up.”

Shoo he does, but not before giving Tony the finger. Before he drives off Tony sticks his hand out of the window and flips him the bird in return.

When Tony is just a dot on the horizon, Peter allows himself to smile. The gesture, he will admit to no one, is kind of amusing, crude as it is. Because, it’s kind of funny when he thinks about it. That was the worst the infamous Tony Stark could do while he’s admittedly vulnerable? Feed him McDonalds and give him the finger? Don’t get him wrong, Peter was certainly wary of the guy before, in the way that he didn’t want to piss Tony off and end up on the wrong end of his fist, but now? Peter’s got him figured -- he’s as tough as a pussycat. 

In fact, Peter has actually met alley cats with more snarl than Tony Stark.

And he’s not exactly what Peter expected.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

One of the first instincts he has is to tell someone about it. Maybe tell someone that there is more bark than bite to Tony, that there is something not as acerbic under his exterior as he made out there was. That he’s just an angry boy.

But strangely, his second, more overwhelming instinct, is to keep it to himself. For some reason the memories of the last couple of days feel safest clutched to his chest, and the drive to protect whatever Tony was trying to project more important than sharing what he knew. He doesn’t know what to make of that either, but he doesn’t like it.

Still slightly buzzed, he barely notices the flight up to the apartment. May, blessedly is asleep when he enters, the lights are off and her door is closed. He still feels floaty when he enters his bedroom and kicks off his shoes, peeling off his jacket, his jeans and dumping his backpack by the bed. Settling back on his bed in just his shirt and underwear, he closes his eyes, thoughts crashing in relentless waves. What a rollercoaster of a day, he thinks, hand snaking down to rub leisurely over his crotch.

He doesn’t realise that the smile is still on his face until it unceremoniously drops, suddenly hit with a realisation.

The letter from the hospital. He left it in the folder.

He gave the folder to Tony.

Peter blinks up at the ceiling, nausea rising.

“Ah, fuck.”


	6. Six

There is something buzzing by his ear.

At first, Tony doesn’t really notice it, waking up in short increments before being pulled back under. But he keeps waking, unsure what keeps tugging him out of his dreams, hand flapping around his face as he tries to stop the incessant ringing.

“Blergh,” he mumbles into his pillow.

Batting his hand around to quell the source of annoyance, he comes to grip his phone, squinting as it lights up inches away from his face and vibrates against his palm. For a second he thinks it’s his alarm that's woken him, but then he remembers that he didn’t set one and doesn't need to be up until later. It’s that thought which alerts him out of the slope of slumber with a start.

The first thing he registers is that it’s only eight-minutes after seven. The second is the succession of texts cascading down his screen in an endless ladder of notifications. Blearily, he brings the phone to his face to read them, praying to whoever will listen that it isn't an emergency and someone isn't dying. It's too early for that nonsense.

**_> so thanks for last night  
> yknow  
> for the ride   
> i mean  
> you know what i mean  
> anyway  
> so that folder i gave you had my BIO notes, not econ  
> im such a doofus  
> i need them back  
> don’t bother looking at them lol  
> can we meet up?_ **

Tony groans, eyelids as heavy as anvils. Jesus christ, he cannot be serious right now. It's been He didn’t get home until four after dropping this guy off and he’s already up and bothering him? What gives? It's like the guy doesn't even sleep, not that would be of any surprise to Tony, he surely runs on the energy of being a prized dickwad. 

Exhausted and annoyed, he tucks his phone under his pillow and sets it on do-not-disturb for extra measure. There ain’t no way he’s getting up at seven on a Saturday for fucking _class notes_. God, what a prick.

As far as Tony sees it, he’s filled his quota of good deeds for the week and he doesn’t need to be up for another few hours, so he's not gonna. Whatever the rush is about, he thinks, snuggling into his pillow, he’s sure it can wait for some well deserved shut-eye.

\----

The next time he wakes it’s just after nine. A gap in his curtains allows a sharp shard of sunlight to enter the room and shine directly over his eyes. 

Turning on his other side, he grips the duvet and tightens it around himself until it is but a cocoon, and he a caterpillar within it chasing the wings of his dreams as they drift away. Under the sheets it's as warm and cosy as thousand-count Egyptian cotton can be, but even girt by luxury bedding there isn’t any more sleep to come. Because, of course, for all of the splendour he's surrounded by, rest is as a rare commodity as ever.

He groans tiredly into the drool patch on his pillow. Nine is practically six. It’s criminal to be up this early.

Not yet willing to leave the warmth, he remains in bed for a bit, checking the alerts on his phone and planning the logistics of what he needs to get done that day. He needs to go see Rhodey before he hits up Harlem by noon, that's for sure. Get a load of washing done or something. Maybe he should be proactive and send Rhodey a heads-up, he thinks. He opens his message app, intending to do just that, but is swiftly distracted when he rediscovers the flurry of texts on his phone. Some are from Pepper, but most of them are from Parker.

"Well you can fuck right off," he mutters, carelessly tossing his phone to the end of his bed.

With that, he swings his legs off the bed and stretches, his back cracking as his arms reach up towards the ceiling. In this position he takes a quick sniff of his armpits to gauge whether he can forego a shower that morning. The stale body odor is bordering on wicked, he notes with a slight wince. It’s perhaps a remote possibility that he’s overdue for a wash.

In the shower his back meets the cold tiles as he punches in the setting on the touchpad, dialling up the temperature to near scalding. The intuitive shower-head follows his body with a mechanical _whir_ , miscalculating its aim and spraying him in the mouth like a fire hose. He ducks his head to wet his hair, reaching blindly for the touchpad to dial down the pressure.

Ah, yes. That will need to be recalibrated. 

Once the water is to his liking he reaches down to take himself in hand, leisurely stroking himself. It’s just a perfunctory part of his morning ritual; he doesn’t really have anyone in mind as he brings himself to full hardness, just the fleeting memory of lips around his cock from that one time he got a blow-job. Nothing special. 

And maybe while his fingers travel south to cup his testicles he pictures some big, brown eyes and a well-rounded ass. And it's possible that he starts to imagine himself on all-fours, someone gripping his hips firmly and driving into him from behind, speaking dirty-but-sweet things into his ear, a line of heat against his back, heavy and all around him. And maybe he goes off like a rocket in a matter of minutes. That’s his business.

Anyway, once he’s out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, he inspects his appearance in the foggy mirror. The bruises on his face are still pretty gruesome, deep purple in the centre and yellowing around the edges. The cut on his lip seems to be scabbed over and healing properly.

Turning to the side, Tony takes stock of his body, eyes drawn to the cut of his arms, the lack of tone in his chest, the stomach that isn't as defined as he’d like it to be; undoubtedly due to his affinity for carbs and sweets, bored eating, emotional eating, study eating and a bit of lingering baby-fat. He isn’t exactly steel cut like the dudebros on the football team who have made being ripped their life mission, but he has musculature under the adipose, he reminds himself as his reflection flexes; he can lift, it ain't all bad.

Is he a little self-conscious about it? Sure.

Is he worried about it enough to give up garlic bread and cronuts? Absolutely not.

Dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans that have seen better days, he sighs woefully down to the mangled mess of metal on his desk. Like his jeans, his little creation has definitely seen greener pastures. It beeps at him almost forlornly upon his approach, like an injured lamb. There's a painful twinge behind his breastbone at the sight. 

“Look at you,” he scoops up the injured, beeping bot and gently places it into his backpack. “Come here, darling. Shh, you’re okay.”

Peering both ways out of the hall to ensure the coast is clear, he quickly descends the stairs, footwork light. On the ground floor he pauses when he hears voices coming from his father’s office. It takes a second to recognise the voices, his father and Stane arguing over one another, loudly, then softly as they seem to come to some sort of agreement. He's momentarily tempted to listen in, but the muffled beeping from his backpack reminds him he has other places to be.

Careful to avoid the floorboards that squeak he tiptoes to the kitchen to pocket a few muesli bars and a water bottle from the fridge. The voices get progressively louder as he sneaks to the front door, silently saluting their maid as he passes. She waves back at him, offering a sympathetic smile as he heads out the door. 

His heart pounds progressively harder the closer he gets to his car. It's not until he's inside and locked the door does relief flood through him.

"Alright, baby,” he says, revving the engine. “Let’s go.”

\----

“What the hell are you doing here, Tony?”

It’s hard to be sure, but Tony get's the distinct sense that Rhodey doesn’t expect his unannounced arrival at his front door that morning. Maybe it's the furious scowl on his face, or the pillow crease on his cheek and the bunny slippers. Nonetheless, he slips past the front door, welcoming himself into his friends home, despite the exasperated outcry of _for fucks sake Tony, it’s Saturday and it’s not even noon, can’t you call ahead?_

And yes, he should have called ahead, was going to call ahead, but in staying true to himself he’d gotten distracted and the thought had perished as a result -- but the intention was there; and it’s the thought that counts, right? That’s the kind of shit people say when their actions are garbage but their intentions are good, isn't it?

Besides, he thinks, heading down the hall to the basement, his friends footsteps echoing irately behind him, whether he called or knocked, he’s awake in any case, isn’t he? It’s practically a standing date at this point. And for what it's worth, judging by the empty driveway and barren living room, Rhodey’s family is already out, he’s not sure what the issue is.

“The issue is I am tired, man,” his friend complains, following him down the stairs, but not kicking him out. “What are you doing here?”

“Me too, honeybear, freakin’ ex-haus- _ted_ ,” Tony mutters, retrieving the bot from his bag and setting it on the nearest work table. It still beeps at him, like a bleating baby animal, but he doesn't have the heart to be embarrassed about it, it's in his design, after all. He cocks his head back to his friend, waving him off. “Go back to bed, dude. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”

But Rhodey just crosses his arms over his chest and rests his hip against the table, looking at Tony like he were a reckless kid who had just got his head stuck between the banisters. “Oh _sure_ , I'm supposed to leave you here unsupervised and let you solder your fingers together again.”

Tony scoffs, frowning in his friends direction. “That's not going to happen, o ye of little faith. I'm a pro.”

“Unless you need me to remind you of last summer,” Rhodey takes a seat at the workbench, sighing heavily as he settles upon the stool, “I suggest you shut up.”

“You’re rude, you know that?” Tony asks, not at all appreciating the reminder of the painful process it took to un-solder his fingers and the raw skin left behind for weeks. “I’ll have you know that I’ve learned since then.”

“And yet you still refuse to wear gloves. Or anything else resembling protective equipment."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

An amicable quiet falls between them while Tony works, carefully settling all the pieces he needs onto the table, raiding the stash of nuts, bolts and varying sizes of screwdrivers he'd left here for this very purpose. God knows he can't leave this shit at his own place. He hums quietly to himself as he works, precariously cracking open the "ribs" of his bot to get to it's main circuit, praying it isn't too damaged. It's with no short sense of relief that he finds it to be mostly intact and only requiring a few minor adjustments without having to be scrapped all together.

“You fuck up something?” Rhodey points to the bot.

He shakes his head, pressing the solder into the circuit board, watching the metal sizzle. “No. Well, yes. The coding is perfect, as usual, but this idiot isn’t any smarter than a Roomba most of the time. He’s meant to be smarter. He _is_ smarter but sometimes he messes up,” Tony mumbles, reaching blindly for the bent-nose pliers until Rhodey places it in his hand. “He’s not bad, he's just dumb. It’s not his fault.”

“So, what happened to him? He looks like he got run over.”

“Nah," he shakes his head, "the old man and me got into it yesterday. Said he's sick of me playing with ‘toys’, so dumb-dumb here met the wall. It was a very dramatic, Emmy worthy display of machismo.”

“Does that explain your face?”

Tony peers up at his friend, lips quirking upwards in what he knows is a cocky smirk. “You mean my dashing good looks?”

“Tony.”

"You want to know the truth? I got into a fight," he says seriously. He sighs wearily, eyes rolling skyward as he pauses, feeling the weight of Rhodey's eyes on him, drinking in his expression, even as Tony fights to reign in the smile tugging at his lips. "I was walking home yesterday when a feral racoon ran off with some old lady’s purse. She called me a hero and gave me some stale crackers from her purse, so I guess it was worth nearly losing an eye.”

“Oh my god, for fucks sake, Tony.”

“ _Fine_. I was skateboarding. I was in the middle of executing a super complicated kickflip but lost control when an enlarged gutter rat scurried in front of me. I flew headfirst into the ground and ate gravel. Very embarrassing. That work for you?”

“ _Tony_.”

He places his tools down on the work bench with an impatient clang, unimpressed with the line of questioning. “Look, just leave it will ya? God, you’re like a nagging wife. Pick whichever story makes you feel all nice and fuzzy inside, okay?”

Rhodey is suddenly before him, waving something in his face. “Your _phone_ , jackass.”

Tony blinks, gently setting down the pliers and the chip he’d removed, taking the phone. It vibrates in his hand as it continues to ring, _Your Better Half_ flashing across the screen. 

Parker, _ugh_.

Tony makes a face. He really should have changed the contact name by now, he thinks regretfully, swiping to answer.

“Alcoholics Anonymous,” Tony answers by way of greeting, voice dripping with disdain. “How may I direct your call?”

_“Ha ha, very funny, asshole. So you are awake. I’ve been trying to contact you all morning.”  
_

“I know. I’m beginning to think you actually might have separation issues, Mr. Parker,” Tony says. “I just got rid of you like eight hours ago, what could you possibly want already?”

_“I’m calling about the folder. Didn’t you read my texts?“_

“Oh, right - those. No, I absolutely read them,” Tony settles back on the stool and continues to work on the main circuit, tilting his neck to keep his phone between his ear and his shoulder, “but see, I was just ignoring you. Was hoping you’d take the hint, but I forget subtlety is lost on you.”

_“Look, I need my notes. Can we meet up?”  
_

“Right, for Bio,” Tony rolls his eyes. “Can’t it wait until Monday?”

_“No. I, uh - I have a test first period. I need to study for it.”  
_

“Well, I can help you there, kid," Tony lowers his voice as he toys with the pliers, simpering and hoping it translates over the phone. "Just remember, the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell; you’ll be fine. And you're welcome, good luck.”

_“I take AP Bio, asswipe, I’m aware of that. Can I just get it back, please?”  
_

“You take AP Bio? Was that an admin error or something?” he asks, holding the chip he’d retrieved earlier up to the overhead light to inspect for any damage. 

It looks to be okay. The damage to the bot overall seems to be minor, mostly cosmetic, a couple of scratches, a few dents and some dislodged wiring. Nothing that a few replacement parts and a half day wont fix. And whatever he hasn’t already got stored here Rhodey will surely have spare parts, it’ll be fine, maybe he needs to get some scrap metal and refine it. God, what would he do if his friend didn’t lovingly tolerate Tony using his space for storage and barging in whenever he likes. Patience of a saint, seriously - and it’s lucky Rhodey’s parents are so chill, unlike his own. He may be a hot-head but he’s practically a monk compared to -

_“ - hello? Are you still there? I can hear you breathing.”_

Tony blinks. “Right. Your notes. Look, I’m kinda busy. I have a life outside of you and I don’t actually care about your academic integrity, so, you’re gonna have to wait.”

_“For how long?”  
_

“I’ll drop them off this evening, like six-ish. Hey, maybe we could do that interview with May if she’ll be around.”

_“...I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”  
_

“C’mon, I already told you I’m not actually hot for your aunt. I’ll be professional.”

Rhodey shoots him a bewildered look.

_“That’s not what -- look, whatever. Just don’t be late okay. I have a life outside of you too.”  
_

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. I’ll try and not get in the way of your weekend plans of crying while you masturbate.”

_“I literally hate you.”  
_

“And yet you aren’t denying the crying. Anyway, I have to go now, try to clean yourself up before I get there. See you at six, bubby,” he hangs up, cracking his neck before refocusing on his mangled creation. “Alright, now where were we?”

“What the fuck.”

Tony pauses, gripping one of the bot's motion sensors between his fingers. There is a particular expression on Rhodey’s face erring on the side of confused and haunted. 

“What?”

“Who is ' _bubby'?_ ”

He waves part around dismissively, almost losing grip on it. “Just that fuck-face, Parker -- it’s like an inside thing. Don’t repeat it to him, alright, he’ll get pissy. And then I’ll get pissy. We'll all get pissy.”

“You know it’s just a project, right? You two aren’t actually married.”

“Thank god _._ Could you imagine being married to that guy?” Tony shudders, repulsed. “Scary.”

“Two weeks ago you said he was the bane of your existence. Now you have ‘inside things’ with him? You saw him last night?”

He sighs, shoulders dropping. Yeah, he doesn’t really have a good explanation for any of that. 

The thing about himself, Tony has found over time and trial, is that he really, _really_ likes to press buttons. His impulse control is utter garbage and he absolutely cannot help himself, like a bird attracted to shiny things, like a moth to a flame. He likes to test variables, wants to see what would happen if he did something he wasn’t supposed to, and map out the world as it occurs in motion around him. Curiosity means he likes to test the parameters, to see what can yield, what will bite back.

More often than not that kind of impulsive brand of curiousness has gotten him in some sort of trouble. Turns out not everything and everyone appreciates being tested - and many things like to lash out when pressed. 

Parker, Tony has found, is somebody that doesn’t yield or bite. If Tony was a betting man he’d have placed his money on the boy being more of a yielding type - but what he does is he presses buttons just as much as Tony does, buttons he didn’t even know he had to be pressed. 

And that very much interests Tony.

He just doesn’t know what to do with that information, except to keep pressing.

“I’ll explain later,” Tony promises, mentally crossing his fingers. “In the meantime, can we forget about Parker and focus on my broken baby here?”

Rhodey relents, but Tony knows that look in his eye. He’ll be hearing about it later and at the most inconvenient time. And he’s gonna tell Pepper.

He really should change Peter’s contact name in his phone.

\----

By the time he leaves the Rhodes residence and heads to his next destination, his robot is in somewhat like working order again. It remains fairly immobile though, just until Tony can replace the damaged infrared and touch sensor. It clicks its metal claws sadly towards Tony in the passenger seat as he drives.

It’s a Roy Orbison kind of day, so the music is loud and the guitar is heavy as he makes the drive to Harlem, the rain light and soothing.

And if Tony frees a hand to pat the bot on its’ metal head every so often, that’s his business.

When he reaches the other side of the city he parks in his usual space at a nearby lot and contemplates whether or not he should leave the malfunctioning bot in his car for the sake of being professional. It clicks at his jacket, weakly grasping the material as if on a plea - and damn, Tony knows the thing isn’t actually sentient but what kind of asshole would he be if he left it here for the day.

Heart squeezing with sympathy, Tony delicately places him in the backpack, leaving the zip partially open for ‘air’.

Next, snacks.

While he’s retrieving a pack (or two) of Reeses, he comes across Parker’s folder that he’d stashed there the previous night. Their conversation from earlier returns to the forefront of his mind, along with all of the familiar annoyance of feeling like he's at the dude's beck and call.

Look, Parker may not be the knuckle-dragging, monosyllabic dumbass that Tony had initially suspected he was, and maybe he had displayed some kind of competence during their trip to the rental market - and okay, maybe he was definitely on the higher end of the bell curve of his social circle - but is he AP Bio, or AP anything material?

Unlikely.

Time to find out.

The first thing that Tony notices is that the notes are definitely not for Bio. They’re for Econ, as initially prescribed. 

The second thing he notices, as he flicks through the papers, skimming over the complicated graphs and annotated research, is that what he’s reading is actually _good_. It costs him to admit it, even to himself in the privacy of his own head, but they're not bad at all.

 _Well, I’ll be darned_ , Tony thinks, eyes getting progressively wider as he flicks through the pages. Makes him wonder why Parker thought he was missing his Bio notes though.

The answer to that becomes clear when a crumpled sheet of paper falls out of the stack onto Tony’s lap. He picks it up and, at first thinking it’s a part of the research, but pauses as he begins reading.

“Um,” he says.

It’s addressed to May Parker from Queens Presbyterian Hospital, an overdue stamp pressed onto the letterhead, standing out against the white paper like a blinking warning sign. It's an invoice. It's not particularly specific on the itemisation of services rendered, but it's hard to miss the bold disclaimer that should it continue to be unpaid, additional fines would be incurred along with the passing of the debt to a collection agency.

Oh.

Tony quickly stashes the letter back into the folder, heard thudding against his chest, pounding suddenly in his ears. Yep, okay, wow - definitely none of his business. 

Yeah, he really shouldn’t have gone through those notes, he thinks, an odd guilt creeping up over his shoulder, settling into his stomach like he just swallowed mud. Big fucking yikes on his behalf. He can just -- he can just ignore it, right? Pretend like he never saw it. It's absolutely none of his business. It's probably for like, routine preventative screening like a mammogram or something. 

Yeah.

Feeling like he's done something very wrong, like he's accidentally stumbled across a very personal moment he wasn't privy to, he sits there in he front seat for a second, staring at his dashboard, lips pursed as his mind goes into overdrive and his skin crawls with knowledge he didn't ask for. But he can't sit there for long, because he's late -- and after skipping work yesterday, he's not particularly keen on pushing his luck. It hangs over him like a sticky, uncomfortable residue as he picks up his backpack and heads out to the garage across the road -- _Jay's Auto_.

Stopping to pat the inky, homeless Labrador that always lingers out the front, Tony heads in, aiming for the back office. The smell of the garage hits him like it always does, grounding and more like home than his own home, all engine oil and rust and like it needs a good sweep. Shoulders already easing, Tony fixes a smile on his face and knocks on the doorframe, ducking his head inside.

“Yo,” he waves to the man sitting behind the desk. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey kid,” the man looks up, setting his papers down and smiling before his eyes zero in on him. His face drops. “Tony, your face. What happened?”

“This? It’s nothing.”

"Is that why you couldn’t come to work yesterday? Not that I mind, of course,” the man stands up, stuttering. “Are you okay? Was it -”

“- nothing to worry about? Absolutely,” Tony holds his hands up in surrender. “Just an unfortunate encounter with a wild, feral squirrel in Central Park. I tell you, they’re deceivingly cute, but they’re pests. Totally out of control.”

“Tony.”

“Jarvis,” he interrupts, gesturing to the cars in the garage behind him and the loitering customer waiting at their front desk, pretending to read a pamphlet while they were blatantly eavesdropping. “C’mon. Look, let’s get to work, okay? Save the violins for later.”

The man sighs, world-weary, looking at Tony like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. He's known Tony forever, so he probably doesn't need to venture far to guess. He’s certain his boss is going to push the issue, but it must be a day for dodging bullets because he relents, letting Tony off the hook - for now.

“Alright, kid. I got a ninety-four Ford sedan back there with your name on it. Busted fan belt, overheated engine. Probably needs a new set of spark plugs while you’re at it.”

With a grateful nod, Tony heads back, locating the vehicle in question. It’s rusted to all hell and probably not worth the cost of repair, but he gets stuck into it anyway, keen for a distraction, red stamps and addendums swooping in his head like all of his worst and intrusive, impulsive thoughts, streaming like a banner of _touch, don't touch, do not pass go_. He sets his bag and bot down near him while Jarvis blasts Alice Cooper’s _Poison_.

It's a welcome reprieve - the cars, the music. Tony might not have all the answers to life’s problems, but this is something he knows how to fix.

\----

He probably distracts himself a little too well, because by the time he’s wrapped up with the Ford it’s already five-thirty and he’s a mess of engine oil and coolant. It’s only when Jarvis squeezes his shoulder and points to the clock on the far wall does he realise that he’s lost his sense of time. How the fuck is he supposed to clean up and get all the way from Harlem to Queens at this time of the evening?

“Ah, crap,” Tony mutters, setting down his socket-wrench in his toolbox. “I’m late.”

“Late for what? You got a hot date or something?” Jarvis asks, stepping back to give him some room as he rushes to the staff bathroom. 

“What, no,” He calls back, running the faucet and pumping soap over his hands. “I gotta go see about a guy.” He struggles to hear his boss over the running water but he doesn’t have time to stop and figure it out. 

“From school?”

“Yes, and a prime pain in my ass,” Tony mutters, drying his hands on his jeans, walking back into the garage. “Anyway, see you Monday, chief?”

His boss nods, passing Tony his earnings for the week in cash. Tony should have known to dash and run because he starts hearing the proverbial violins when Jarvis clamps a hand on his shoulder, squeezing in a way that is more paternal than Tony is comfortable with. 

“You know you can call me, you have my number. You come up and see me and the missus whenever you want.”

Eyelids fluttering shut, Tony tips his head back and fake snores. He aims for obnoxious but it doesn't really quite hit, he thinks, opening his eyes again to find his boss's brow creased with concern, lips turned downwards.

“Jarvis,” he tries. "C'mon, man."

“We have a spare room,” he insists, shrugging sheepishly and stepping back. “It’s yours at any time.”

“I see you enough, okay, don’t push it. I’ll see you Monday,” Tony draws him into a one-armed hug and claps him on the back. “Don’t you worry about me.” 

“Don’t _make_ me worry.”

“No promises,” Tony salutes, slinging his backpack on shoulder and walking backwards out of the garage to the street. “Hug the missus for me.”

Jarvis salutes back as he leaves, his expression still grim.

Tony mentally files that away, not really prepared to deal with that at the moment. He's got enough warring for space in his head, putting on a show for his boss is the last of his priorities at this time, so, willing to take it on notice, he sprints across the street when there’s a gap in traffic, bot snapping gently at his hair as he runs.

Despite the day and feeling sweaty and sore down to his bones, he is full of restless energy, a sense of accomplishment coursing through his blood, like an afternoon of work can only provide. He should fire off a text, he thinks, as he starts the ignition and heads out onto the road, yeah. Let Parker know he will be late. That's what polite people do, right, like, give warning and shit? 

And he does genuinely mean to send a message at the next traffic stop, but then Queen starts playing on the radio and Tony isn’t a fool, okay, he turns that up loud.

Next traffic stop, he promises himself.

\----

“I’m beginning to think you can’t read the time,” Parker opens the door with a scowl. “You said six.”

Shuffling his feet awkwardly as he stands in the hallway, Tony looks at his phone to check the time, thinking he can't possibly be as late as the anger warrants, but he kind of is. Six-fifty-nine. Ah, crap. It’s not totally his fault, okay. There was a pile up along the way and traffic was a nightmare of ridiculous proportions. He swears he’s gonna be the first person to invent a commercially viable flying car just for the sake of personally avoiding road congestion. He opens his mouth to explain this, that he works an actual job, hoping to temper some of the fire in Parkers eyes, but what comes out is taken from their usual template.

“Yeah, so. Here’s the thing: I had things to do, okay, priorities --”

“You and your _priorities_ , I swear to god --”

“Here,” Tony cuts him off, passing him his folder, letter neatly inside where it isn’t going to obviously slip out. “Your folder, dumbass.”

Peter grips it, holding it to his chest as he stares at Tony for a moment, before passing it to the nearest flat surface, a weathered and small table that holds their keys.

“Okay, thanks,” Peter nods, smiling grimly, glancing behind his shoulder. “Appreciate it. You can go now.”

“So where are the Econ notes,” Tony blurts, wincing as he plays dumb. “I mean, if you had something prepared.”

Peter blinks, surprised. “Oh, uh. Um, It can wait until Monday, can’t it?”

“The assignment is due Wednesday.”

“Right. Um, just give me a sec --”

“Is that Tony?”

May appears behind Peter, smiling brightly. Tony waves, rocking back on his feet. 

“Hey, Missus Parker.”

“Hey there, handsome,” she hip-checks her nephew, joining him in the doorway and glancing between the two. “You didn’t mention we were having company tonight, Pete.”

“He’s not handsome and he’s not staying --”

“-- I was just dropping something off,” he looks to Peter. “And excuse you, the lady has spoken and I have to agree. I am handsome. Some might even say that I’m _debonair_.”

“And some might say that you’re deplorable.”

“Hmm, I think you mean adorable.”

That prompts a smile out of Peter. If that wasn't enough to make his stomach do something funny, then the guy crosses his arms over his chest, fabric of his shirt stretching over his biceps, tilting his chin up, exuding haughtiness that Tony knows is all an act. It's not cute - it is not.

“Tony Stark, you are many things, but adorable isn’t one of them.”

He leans in, pouting playfully. The smile doesn't budge and neither does Tony. “Oh come on, Parker. I’m a little cute, aren’t I?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Uh, let me check,” Peter pauses before his lips quirk up in a sardonic smile, eyes crinkling at the sides. “Verdicts in - jury says you’re one-hundred-percent despicable. Sorry.”

"I’m sure I could sway the jury.”

“I think you mean you could pay the jury.”

Tony nods, pretending to be serious. “Well, yeah. You know, for consensus.”

“Consensus is important,” Peter licks his lips, shifting closer. Tony nods, trying to think of something to say, but coming up short.

“...Well, if you two are done,” May says after an extended period of silence, tying her hair back into a ponytail. “We were just about to head out to a Thai place around the corner. Tony, you should join us.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I should go --”

The rest of his words are cut off by a truly monstrous growl of his stomach. He winces, scrunching up his nose sheepishly. He probably should have eaten more than Reese's all afternoon.

“Well, I guess that settles that,” May says, stepping out of the doorway and beckoning Tony in. “Come in. Sorry about the mess.” 

It’s with Peter still staring at him that he reluctantly enters their apartment, brushing past the other boy. It looks the same as it did the other week, mostly tidy and smelling like incense. There’s a sizeable stack of unfolded laundry on the dining table, however, that wasn’t there before. He's distracted by a pair of dancing-bulbasaur boxers - so cool - sticking out of the pile when May leans in close to sniff at his hair. 

“You’ve got something in your hair, honey. Is that paint?”

He runs his fingers through his hair, palm coming back streaked with green. “Radiator fluid,” he explains, holding up his hand to a perplexed May.

"Oh, well, if you say so. Go get yourself washed up and we can head out.”

The burn of Peter’s stare follows him all the way to their bathroom.

\----

In the low light of the restaurant, Peter’s skin looked golden. They were sat by a window and every time a car passed their headlights would briefly illuminate the back of his head like a halo, thin fingers gripping his chopsticks somewhat awkwardly. The other boy was proficient enough to not drop heaps of rice into his lap, but still fumbled some on the delivery.

Tony didn’t usually eat a lot of food that involved chopsticks, more of a steak and potatoes kinda guy, but he’d known better than to ask for a fork since he was a kid when, at seven, he’d asked for alternative cutlery over a meal during a business deal and his father laughed, high and insincere, pinching his cheek so hard that it bruised.

Peter misses a piece of broccoli headed toward his mouth, the vegetable dropping to his floor with a thwack. Tony looks the other way and bites his bottom lip to fend off a smile, pretending he didn’t notice. Only because of his aunt, of course, if it was just them Tony would already be giving him shit, pointing at him like Nelson from the Simpsons and saying  _ ha-ha _ unironically. God. What a fucking loser.

Overall, the meal is less awkward than Tony thought it would be.

Well, for him at least.

Over larb and khao pad they’d gotten through an informal interview with May about her experience as a caregiver with a single income. Not only was it informative for his own future financial independence, but she has been generous enough to speckle in colorful anecdotes of her nephew’s upbringing. Parker’s face has been getting progressively redder all night and it has nothing to do with the spice in his food.

Tony has enjoyed the evening _thoroughly_.

“ - and of course, we were lucky we hadn’t decided to go cheap on the health insurance. Especially when Pete here broke his wrist at gymnastics when he was eight.”

Tony barely holds back a snort. 

“You did _gymnastics_ , Parker?”

Peter tips his head back to stare at the ceiling and sighs. The flush seems to be creeping down his neck too, Tony observes gleefully. He stuffs a large mouthful of rice in his mouth to mitigate the urge to tease. 

"Yes, he was very good, weren’t you, Pete? So talented, you should see his medals.”

“Stop, please.”

“C’mon, no need to be embarrassed, Pete, you were amazing,” she says. “You’re still a flexible little bug, aren’t you?”

Tony chokes on his rice.

Peter has his eyes squeezed shut and looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole. 

“May, I’m literally begging you.”

“Uh,” he beats at his chest with his fist, swallowing roughly. “So how long did you do that for?”

“Until I was fourteen.”

“Why’d you quit?”

There’s a very deliberate, weighted pause. May and Peter share a look between them and Tony gets a deeply uncomfortable sense that he’s just stuck his foot in it. _Retract_ , he thinks, already regretting opening his mouth.

“Well,” May clears her throat, her tone light. “After my husband, Pete’s uncle Ben died, we moved away and we had to make some... financial cuts at the time.”

The bite he’s just taken goes to ash in his mouth. God, he really is a big idiot isn’t he. He’d assumed that May never got married to the man in the photos or that they’d just divorced, he didn’t realise that he’d passed - and so recently, too. Welling up with shame, he can’t stop himself from glancing at Peter, who’s staring at the table, lips pursed.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to - I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” May waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is strained. “Anyway, what about you, Tony? You’re severely asthmatic, right? That must have been hard, growing up if you wanted to play sports.”

Tony’s eyes widen.

“Yes, um, so hard. Luckily I’m not really an exercise-y kinda guy. I personally prefer to keep a heart rate below eighty beats per minute.”

“Did you have any hobbies growing up?”

“Yeah, driving my parents crazy,” Tony says, glad for the shift from the somber topic. “Escaping from nannies, seeing how quickly I could get them to quit.”

“You like tinkering,” Peter says quietly, looking up. “You mentioned, before. Cars and stuff.”

He shrugs, starting to feel as if he’s under the microscope, especially when Peter looks at him, eyes glittering with thinly-veiled interest. 

“I mean, I don’t know. I like - building stuff, I guess. Machines and robots, y’know, cars. It’s like, whatever.”

“You want to be the next Elon Musk or somethin’?” Peter asks, not unkindly, resting his chin on his hand.

“Nah, I wanna be the first Tony Stark,” he scratches his cheek, suddenly bashful. It’s an uncommon feeling for him. One hard to avoid, however, particularly when there is a boy who Tony doesn’t really hate who’s asking about his life like it might matter. 

He clears his throat. “Anyway, mostly it was just me cataloguing all the ways I could make the vein in my fathers’ head pop. I’m still working on that.”

May looks between them, smiling.

“Sounds like you were a handful.”

“Sure was.”

Still is, apparently, no matter how much he tries to stay out of the way.

The silence that follows is punctuated by the sounds of cutlery scraping across plates, of shrinking ice cubes rattling against glass. It feels pensive at the same time as it does thorny, like Tony opened the door to let someone in but accidentally let out a few ghouls.

And despite knowing he’d stepped on a landmine with the Parkers, he can’t help but wonder what other pieces of the puzzle he’s missing. Why Peter doesn’t live with his parents. Not that Tony is invested in him or actually cares or anything.

He just doesn’t like mysteries, that’s all.

And maybe he can't help but feel like he's inadvertently opened the lid of Pandora's Box throughout the day and doesn't know how to shut it - or shut up, as it were.

May excuses herself after to head to the bathroom not long after. It’s during that time that the waiter brings the check, which Tony takes immediately, slipping in some of the cash he’d gotten earlier, despite Peter’s protests. He was gonna do it anyway, even if he didn’t have the letter in the back of his mind.

“Stop paying for me,” Peter says after he passes the check-book back to the waiter. “Your family is rich, I get it. I’ve told you, I don’t need your charity.”

Tony shakes his head. It’s not worth mentioning that the only money he spends doesn’t come from his family.

“It’s not charity. Do you really think I’m that nice, eh? C’mon. Maybe I like lording it over you.”

“Well, at some point I’m going to pay you back.”

“And when that time comes I’m not going to accept your money.”

“You will,” Peter smiles wryly down at his plate. “I have my ways.”

“As do I, sweetums. Now, do me a favour: shut up and finish your larb.”

Peter does, but something about him shifts. It seems more quiet and contemplative, his eyes staying longer on Tony than they normally would. He wants to tell him to take a picture, but for once, Tony thinks it’s probably best if he keeps his mouth shut.

\----

Back at the apartment, Peter goes to retrieve his ‘Econ notes’, taking the folder from the table and retreating to his bedroom. In the interim, May offers to let Tony stay over, inviting him for what he’s sure would be a rousing game of Mario Kart. 

He politely declines.

“You sure? Winner gets to choose a movie.”

“I should really get home,” he says. “Thanks though. And thanks for dinner.”

“No problem. Thank you for paying, you didn’t have to do that. Let me pay you back.”

“No need. Think of it as payment for your services and letting us pick your brain tonight.”

She reluctantly accepts with a lot less pride than what her nephew displayed and that makes Tony feel a little sick, because it’s evident that she’s a proud and stubborn woman by nature. Her acceptance, albeit laboured, speaks volumes as to the reasoning behind it.

What takes him by surprise is when she hugs him goodbye and kisses his cheek.

“You’re a good egg, Anthony. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

It’s probably the most maternal touch he’s had since, well. Probably since he last went to stay with Jarvis and his wife. Fidgeting in the hold, he’s not sure if he wants to squirm or to sink into it. She leaves when Peter comes back in, a familiar stack of notes in his hands that he passes to Tony.

“You gonna kiss me goodbye, too?”

“What?” Peter blinks.

"Uh, never mind,” Tony waves the papers at him. “Thanks for this.”

Peter looks around to make sure they’re alone before leaning in rather promptly. 

“Wow, hold up on the proximity there,” Tony inches back, startled by their sudden closeness. “I was joking about the kiss --”

“You read the letter, didn’t you,” Peter whisper-hisses.

“What? Letter? What letter?” Tony says, voice strangled. “I don’t know of any letter.”

He gets a painful poke in his chest for his lies.

“Don’t play dumb. It wasn’t where I left it.”

“I’m not -- ow, quit _poking_ me.”

“Then stop _lying._ You’re unbelievable -- don’t you know that opening someone else’s mail is a crime?”

Tony’s shoulders slump as he concedes.

“Look, it was an accident, it just slipped out. I didn't realise what it was until I started reading it. Thought it was part of the work.”

“Why couldn’t you mind your own business? That's not fucking cool, dude.“

Sick of being poked, he shoves the papers between his arm and his ribs to hold them and takes Peter’s fingers in his hands, squeezing the digits when they struggle to break free of his hold. “I shouldn't have read it," he admits, "I just have this thing with impulse control and I didn’t think, okay, I’m sorry."

There's a muscle that shifts in Peter's jaw as he visibly wrestles with his anger, lips pursed so tight that they turn a paler shade of pink. He waits for him to process it, watching Peter watch him, as if in a silent, unmoving standoff. He knows they have come to a truce when Peter stops struggling in his hold.

"Your contriteness needs work," he says finally, voice quiet. "You suck."

"I know," Tony nods, feeling terrible. "Is - is she okay?”

Peter stops struggling, looking over his shoulder again.

“I don’t know,” he leans in again to whisper, “I only found it yesterday, I haven’t spoken to her yet. Look, I know you hate me, but can you please not tell anyone about this?”

“Why would I tell anyone?”

“I don’t know, because you’re the devil, and you get a kick out of seeing me suffer?”

“True, but I’m not going to tell anyone. Promise. That would make _me_ look like an asshole and _you_ like a martyr. Ergo, I shut my cake hole and continue looking better than you.”

“You’re a real prince charming,” the other boy huffs, but seems to take him at face value. “If I find out differently I’m going to come after you. Seriously. You’re going to need dental work afterwards.”

Tony lets go of their joined hands, balling his fists and raising them to his face, mimicking what the other boy had done last night. “You wanna tussle, huh?”

He gets a light shove out the doorway for his attitude. Jesus, he thinks, finding his footing, barely missing an old lady who is passing in the hall. He can't believe he ever felt threatened by this absolute fucking Pomeranian of a jock. The most concerning thing about this guy was his rabid puppy-energy and his frighteningly sentient, wayward eyebrow that never seemed to stay tamed.

“Alright, smartass. Get the fuck outta here already.”

He mock bows, peering up under his eyelashes, momentarily arrested as he watches Parker roll his eyes and bite his bottom lip in an attempt to smother a smile. It disarms whatever quip he has on his tongue, whatever witty rejoinder he had prepared on his tongue, like, goodbye, princess, all because his heart does this weird jump-out-the-gate thing and he has to go, affording nothing more than a quick glance back to an already closed door.

His heart continues to beat a bit oddly all the way down to the car, where he sits in contemplative silence for a few moments until the sound of metal clicking shifts him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, hey you,” he coos, gently retrieving his bot from his bag and placing it in the passenger seat, instantly feeling bad. “I didn’t think I would take so long. I’m sorry.”

Placing a seatbelt over the bot and buckling him in, Tony begins to narrate his night to him as he pulls off the curb and begins driving.

“I guess that Parker isn’t so bad,” he tells the bot, who swivels its head in response to his voice. “I mean, he can’t dress for shit and has questionable tastes in friends - oh, and can _not_ hold his liquor - but I dunno, baby-bot. He’s okay. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though -- and oh my god, did I mention he did gymnastics, what a fucking _dork_...”

The thoughts churn and buoy him until he pulls up to his house nearly an hour later. From the driveway he can see his fathers office light still on.

The sight of it makes his stomach drop, all good cheer gone in an instant. 

“Damn,” Tony whispers to himself, tapping his knuckles against the steering wheel. This time of night on a Saturday can only mean one thing and he is really not in the mood to be in the crosshairs of whatever his father and Stane are up to.

But before he can work himself into a worry his phone vibrates in his pocket.

 ** _> hey, look, thanks for not being a total dick tonight about everything  
_** ** _> and last night as well, I guess  
_** ** _> yknow what i mean  
_** **  
< ur welcome  
** **< by the way, i’m proud of you   
****_  
> for what  
_** **  
< not finishing off ur aunts beer tonight  
** **< takes strength  
** **< admitting u have a problem is the first step** **  
 _  
> omfg i take back what i said  
_** ** _> ur the worst  
_** **  
< and ur a pain in my ass  
** **  
 _> they have creams for that u know  
_** ** _> anyway, g’nite, butthole  
_** _ **> p.s. you’re still not adorable  
**_ ** _  
_**Tony smiles down at his phone.  
  
 **< goodnight bambi  
  
**The bot clicks at him, breaking him out of his train of thought.

“Don’t look at me like that. Let’s go in, but you gotta keep quiet, okay.”

He manages to avoid detection and attention from anyone, despite accidentally stepping on a squeaky floorboard. Maybe it had something to do with the record player and raucous laughter coming from the office.

In any case, Tony’s just happy to make it back to his bedroom. There, he toes off his sneakers and starts getting ready for bed, stashing the leftover cash into a drawer.

It makes him think about Peter’s reluctance for Tony to pay for over the last couple of instances, and how freaking annoying that is. And _rude_. 

Honestly, the dude should count himself as one of the lucky guys - Tony is not that magnanimous. He doesn’t experience an impulsive, unthinking eagerness to provide for just anybody.

Oh.

Tony stills in the middle of his bedroom.

Oh no.

He knows what this is.


	7. Seven

So, here’s the thing.

Peter meant to ask May about the letter the night he got it back from Tony, he really did. But then they all had a nice, civil dinner and everyone was in such a good mood, he couldn’t bring himself to shatter that mood to satisfy his own curiosity. It was easy to justify; surely if it was worth knowing about she would have already sat him down and told him. It was just his anxiety blowing things out of proportion, like usual. And hey, they've been late with their bills before - and as for the hospital invoice, well, May was at that age to qualify for certain preventative screening tests. It was nothing to worry about.

But then he went to bed that night and he couldn't sleep, and the rose-tinted outlook quickly bled into grey. So then he meant to ask the next day. And he tried, he really, really did.

There is a lot of awkward flustering and stumbling and then, something always comes up; a phone call or being interrupted with better news or their elderly neighbour knocking on their door asking for help unscrewing a jar. That, and he gets too scared to shatter the image of the good, obedient nephew he is, one who doesn’t go rifling through mail not addressed to him, prying into personal business.

Meanwhile, the letter feels as heavy as an anvil in his desk drawer, the weight in his chest when he reads the letter again and again doesn't shift. It's just him turning something benign into a catastrophe, like he always, he's sure of it. And maybe most of the heaviness in his chest is just plain old guilt, because he really has to question where exactly his business ends and where his curiosity begins and why he thinks he could fix anything. And why the hell does he always have to insert himself in places that aren't his.

Once during a gymnastics comp he stopped mid routine to check on a rival who had fallen from the rings and injured their ankle. He remembers forfeiting his place by racing over and seeing if they were okay, flagging down a medic. Once they were attended to, his coach had roughly gripped his arm and asked, furious, when he was going to stop being a goddamn martyr.

Come Monday morning, he's still conflicted. It's such a small thing, and he's positive that he's being an A-grade dumbass, but it's occupied enough of his mind that he finally turns to the universe for guidance.  
  
Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply through his nose, he puts his hands together and asks for a resolution. Opening his eyes, he peers down to the Magic 8-Ball. 

_Reply hazy, try again._

Okay. That’s not what his flagging courage had hoped for, but it's alright. He shakes it again, more intently this time.

_Ask again later._

One more time, harder, like a bartender shaking up a martini.

_Better not tell you now._

“What the hell,” he whispers, placing it haphazardly upon where he took it, the stupid inky response facing him. “That’s bullshit.”

“What’s with the potty mouth,” May asks suddenly from behind him. He turns as she’s affixing some gold hoops to her ears, her expression curious, and given how clean his language usually is around her it's not a surprise. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“Nothing,” he sighs, despondent. He considers saying nothing, again, but he thinks it's probably time to rip off the bandaid, vague universe be damned. “Just - do you have a minute?”

She checks her watch. “I have about forty seconds. Is something wrong - are you okay?”

“No - I mean yes, _I’m_ okay. Are...are you?”

“Top of the world, bubby,” she scoops her keys from the bowl, approaching him slowly, her voice gentle but undeniably concerned. “Why do you ask?”

There’s no easy way to ask without blatantly admitting to going through her things, and the last thing he wants her to think is that she can’t trust him. Clearing his throat, he shuffles on the spot, peering down at his feet, trying to find the words he's been meaning to spill for days. It should be easy really, he knows all the right things to say, there's a well rehearsed script on the tip of his tongue; but in the end he tugs the words back down and buries them.

“I just mean," he exhales, trying again. "If you weren’t. If there was something wrong, you would tell me, right?”

“Of course,” her face falls. “You’re acting strange, Pete.”

“I just worry, that’s all.”

_You’re all I have left_ , is what loops over and over in his mind, but doesn’t say. She seems to hear it anyway, rushing forward and kissing his forehead, her perfume filling his nose. Of course she understands, after everything, the burden of being the last ones standing is something they have in common.

“Everything is _fine_. The second it isn’t, you’ll be the first to know. Look, I gotta go, but stop worrying okay? That’s my job," she cups his cheek. "You have a good day.”

She hurries to scoop up her handbag and closes the door before he’s broken out of his thoughts long enough to reply. Later she will send him a text that says _the sky hasn't come down yet and it won't_ and _i love you_ , and it will offer the part of him on alert little comfort. But for now he sighs and shakes the stupid ball again before he leaves as well, wondering if the stone in his chest has any credence or if he really just needs to up his fucking meds.

_Cannot predict now._

Of course.

Just for once he’d like fate to be firmly on his side.

\----

Something smells weird.

It’s sharp, chemical and not entirely unpleasant. Noticeable, however, sharp enough to cut through the usual musty smell of the library. It’s like apple cider, but overpowers the usual library smell of old books and dust and pencil shavings, a scent Peter has long associated with study, solitude, and the easing of his anxious heart from a gallop to a steady stride.

It’s not a bad smell, just misplaced.

And Tony’s been acting strange all study period. Like, weirder than normal - and his resting state of normal is already ineffably frenetic and bewildering, so this was an entirely different carton of eggs. Peter doesn’t exactly want to bring it up because they have this tenuous, peaceful truce, a silent lay down of arms, so to speak, for the time being at least.

Well, as peaceful as a truce can be while they call each other all sorts of names and rib each other over any perceived sign of weakness, but still. They have some sort of an understanding now, and it’s all relatively innocent, good natured banter. Mostly.

Peter for sure could have done without being called _fuck-face-mcgee_ upon entering the library, but he’s willing to let it pass, for the sake of not reviving the animosity that is just teetering off the shelf. He was late to the study session, after all.

“Anyway,” Peter says, sitting across the table from Tony, papers scattered between them in some semblance of organised chaos, Tony typing on his laptop with one hand, making notations with the other. “So I think if we removed the monthly gym membership, we’d have an extra sixty per month that could go towards other stuff.”

“Like what?” Tony’s face pinches.

“I don’t know, like a college fund?”

“Ridiculous idea. I need that membership,” Tony rebukes, shrugging his leather jacket off, hooking it over the back of the chair. “When else am I supposed to get a reprieve from you and the cabbage patch?”

“When do I get a reprieve? I’m the money-maker. When do I get my break from work and childcare?”

“ _At_ work. What are you, like an art teacher or something? Your whole day is like a rich, white woman's vacation. Parents don’t get a lunch break.”

“Right. I’m sure watching Dora and burping an infant is as hard as teaching a class of thirty.”

“Wow. So dismissive. I mean, if you were a good spouse, you would give your withered and weary husband a break from screaming babies and shitty diapers.”

“Mhmm. That would mean I’d have to do something nice for you, and that doesn’t sound like me.”

Tony shakes his head. “We’re getting a divorce as soon as Molly is old enough to pick me as the superior parent,” he points to Peter’s papers. “Put that in the notes.”

Peter closes his eyes and sighs, willing himself not to lean over the table and smack the other boy. “You are not the superior parent. You’re the deadbeat that forgets to pick her up from school and day drinks.”

“And yet, she loves me the most. You’re just the breadwinner who comes home grumpy every evening. I’m the cool dad.”

“Fine, keep your druglord baby. I never wanted kids anyway.”

“Fine. I’m keeping the car.”

“I’m keeping the apartment.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

They snicker quietly in a rare moment of camaraderie before a lightbulb goes off in Peter's head. He begins writing down calculations furiously on his pad, 

“What if we used the membership, but cut costs elsewhere, like, cutting our own hair and stuff. We could save for a yearly holiday, go to the beach or something.”

“Florida! Disney, roadtrip, _yes_ ,” Tony clicks his fingers towards Peter, smiling wide. “Look at you getting all savvy. Call the judge, the marriage is back on.”

“You can’t go to Disney for a few hundred dollars, dumbass, that’s barely the price of admission,” Peter scribbles on his pad, making note of their ideas. “You ever been?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Not even once.”

Huh, well how about that. Something they have in common despite the disparity in their wealth.

“That’s surprising. Isn’t that where all rich white people take their baby sociopaths to beat up their first mascot?”

“One, I was never a baby, I emerged fully grown, and two, could you imagine Howard Stark within a mile of the happiest place on earth? He’d have a fucking stroke,” his face changes like he’s had an epiphany. “Not a bad idea, actually.”

Peter doesn’t mention that he doesn’t personally know Howard Stark but is willing to take Tony’s assessment at face value. That being said, he can’t imagine Tony, now, voluntarily heading to Disney without coercion or the promise of copious quantities of alcohol. He’d probably smoke and cuss and scare away small children. The idea of him giving Goofy the finger is inexplicably funny though, as is the image of him waltzing to the front of a long line of ride-goers and giving disgruntled parents the finger. God, what a fucking menace it must be to take this guy anywhere.

His mind can't help but linger on that particular characterisation, and for a moment tries to picture what Tony looked like as a kid, if he was a chubby, toothless little brat, can’t help then imagining him with Mickey Mouse ears, gleefully running through his gigantic home, harried caretakers running after him.

He must have been the worst.

“I’ve never been further than Washington,” Peter offers, “but that was for AcDec, so it wasn’t like we got to see much.”

“You did Academic Decathlon?”

“Yep.”

“Ew, why would you do that to yourself.”

“I still do it. It looks good on college applications and it’s fun,” he shrugs. “I like it. I’m good at it.”

Tony’s hands cover his mouth, but it doesn’t stifle the rising apple of his cheeks, nor the mirth in his voice. “I’m feeling so much second-hand embarrassment for you right now.”

“Shut up,” Peter huffs, kicking him under the table, satisfied when the other boy winces. He fails to smother his own wince when he gets a kick in return, right in the kneecap. “Nothing wrong with being an intellectual.”

“You’re a fucking _nerd_ , four-eyes.”

“What about you?” Peter rolls his eyes, keen to change the subject. “Been outside New York?”

Tony shrugs, tapping his pen on the pad, dotting his notes with specks of ink. “When I was younger I’d sometimes go on my dad's business trips to Europe or Japan or whatever. And we have a house in Malibu.”

“That sounds awesome.”

He expects Tony to agree, or at least appear nonchalant in that rich-kid, _I'm accustomed to luxury_ kind of way, but he huffs derisively instead, shuffling on his seat and sliding their notes closer to him. Making further amendments in quick strokes, the cheap pen spurting bright red ink over the paper like arterial spray.

“Oh yeah, it was a _real_ blast.”

_Spoiled brat,_ he refrains from uttering.

“Are you going anywhere for Thanksgiving?”

“With my family?” Tony looks up. “No, I’d rather stick my head up a turkey’s ass. You?”

Without warning, Peter’s hand flies to cover his mouth, unable to help himself from snorting at the imagery, He’s not sure if Tony just doesn’t get along with his family or if he’s still stuck in that churlish, ‘too cool to be around my parents’ stage of adolescence. It’s one the idiosyncrasies that would have annoyed Peter before, how he is seemingly ungrateful to have a family that’s still alive. Peter would have just assumed he was taking it for granted, and it would be just another reason to hate this guy.

Now, he thinks, even though they are the same in tone, he’s beginning to parse out when Tony’s being genuine and sincere and when he’s hyperbolic, finally recognising the latter as a mechanism to throw someone off a topic that makes Tony uncomfortable. He sees it - the warning lights and stop signs in barbed coding, wrapped up in dry wit and sarcasm.

Peter is like that sometimes, too.

So, he doesn't poke where his finger doesn't belong. And what the hell would Peter know about having a normal family, anyway.

“Yeah, actually, for once,” he says softly. “My aunt - not May - and uncle have a holiday home up north, so we’re staying with them over the long weekend.”

“S’cool. May’s family?”

Peter shakes his head. “Sort of - they’re not actually related, but May and Margaret have been best friends since college, so.”

“Is Margaret a babe, too?”

Peter throw a chewed-up pencil at him that he catches easily. “Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not,” he throws the pencil back, overshooting and hitting the shelves behind them. It ricochets somewhere out of sight, which both boys take to mean is lost for good. “What are we talking, on a scale of haggard to hottie.”

“I don’t know, man. You seem to have questionable taste in the people you are attracted to.”

Tony grins crookedly, eyes shining with something Peter can’t decipher. “Ain't that the truth.”

“What’s the supposed to --” he stops himself, suddenly recognising what the strange scent was that he’d been picking up. “Wait - dude, are you wearing cologne?”

Tony’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he responds. “No,” he denies, just as the bell rings. “Oh, look at that, time to get to class.”

_Saved by the bell._

“So, this is it,” Tony nods, shutting the lid of his laptop as the bell signals the end of their free period. “We’re done. The assignment. That’s the last of it, right?”

Dazedly, he watches Tony stuffing his laptop and notes into his backpack, brow creasing as his mind catches up. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”

“Send me your notes tonight, I’ll stitch them together with mine and send them back.”

“Okay,” he sluggishly collects his own notes, picking up the bag by his feet. “That’s - that’s good.”

“Well, Parker,” Tony slings his backpack on his shoulder, shuffling backwards, “we didn’t kill each other. I mean, not for a lack of wanting on my behalf.”

‘’Yeah, from Wednesday we’re free. We can go back to normal.”

“Yeah,” Tony’s grin fades. They stare at each other for a long moment that could have been seconds or hours, he doesn’t know, until the second bell rings.

“Hey, um --”

“I’ll send you the notes later,” Tony interrupts, sotto voce. “I gotta get to class. See you around.”

Something in his stomach deflates, sadly and slowly, like a balloon with a pinprick, emptying itself until it’s an uncomfortably hard to digest crumpled mass at the base of his stomach. He pastes on a smile and looks out the window, hoping the feeling doesn’t show in his eyes.

That’s when he notices the leather jacket Tony has left behind, still slung over the back of the chair.

“You left your…” he trails off, turning back, but Tony is already long gone, probably already halfway to his next class. _Like a bat out of hell_ , Peter thinks wryly, picking up the jacket, the leather smooth like butter under his touch, still warm around the collar where Tony’s had been leaning against it. Well, no good leaving it here to get stolen or be tossed into lost property. He decides to take it with him, folding it gently over his arm. He’ll give it back when he sees him again, maybe after school.

“Nice jacket, Parker,” Flash says approvingly when Peter bumps into him out in the hall.

At first he thinks he’s referring to Peter’s ratty hoodie, and it confounds him for a moment because it’s decidedly not nice, but then he realizes he’s referring to the leather in his arms.

“It’s not mine,” he replies a little too late, because Flash is already down the hall, out of earshot.

Peter sighs. It’s beginning to become a depressing theme.

\----

The weird feeling in his chest doesn’t subside all afternoon, and into the evening Peter is starting to think maybe he just has indigestion, like acid reflux or something. Must be the chilli surprise from lunch. Maybe he’d missed his meds. In fact, that must be it.

Henny Penny. Chicken Little. He didn't earn those nicknames for nothing.

He sends his portion of the final notes to Tony’s email, turns off his computer and switches on Colbert.

\----

It’s not until hours later, well after midnight and the infomercials are playing, only then does his phone buzz against his thigh with a response.

Figures that Tony would be a night owl like him.

**> soz was distracted  
> youtube spiral**

Peter shifts downwards on the bed, holding the phone over his face.  
 _  
< s’ok   
< what were you watching   
  
_ **> say yes to the dress   
  
**_< lmao really  
  
_ **> lol no  
> anyway, looks good. ur notes  
> will print off for u to sign tomorrow  
**

_< is_ _that a compliment or an admission u were wrong about me_

**> neither. One subject does not a genius make   
> unlike me, an actual genius  
  
**

_In your dreams, dipshit_ , he wants to type, but doesn’t, not really keen to provoke a muddy discussion on who is the smartest (it’s definitely Peter).

_< u left ur jacket in the library btw, I have it_, he texts instead, his pulse jumping when Tony replies with crying emoji’s.

Tony sends him a snap, unexpectedly, an exaggerated pout that makes him snort. His face seems distressed, the caption reads, _thought i lost it for good_.

Shifting down further on the bed, he’s feeling suddenly and inexplicably courageous, fire burning up from his belly button to his fingers, he takes a silly photo of himself and sends it back.

  
_> didn’t want it to get stolen  
  
_ **< aw u care**

“I do _not_ ,” he whispers to himself.   
  
_> i do not. come collect it after school tomorrow or im throwing it out.  
  
_ **< u wouldn’t do that to me  
  
** _> there’s a lot of things i would do 2 u   
  
_**> ....   
> um   
> lol **

It takes a second to register the response but when it clicks his face immediately flames at his careless implication. Stomach positively knotted with embarrassment, he reads over what he just thoughtlessly sent and wants to melt into the floor and stay there forever. Oh god, he's such an idiot, that is _not_ what he meant. His fingers fly over the screen at record speed as he types out a response.

_< NOT LIKE THAT  
< I MEANT IT IN A THREATENING WAY  
< I’M LITERALLY GAGGING  
  
_ **> yikes  
> ur dirty talk needs work  
**

_< no it DOESN’T bc we’re not sexting  
  
_ **> sure jan  
> damn. didn’t kno u had it in u bubs  
  
** _< i_ _don’t have it in me  
_

**> not yet  
> ;)**

Despite the deep blush still heating his face and his heart galloping in his chest, a laugh breaks out of him. The phone in his hand vibrates again.  
  
 **> jk jk, not ever  
> need to bleach my brain now **

Slowly gliding back to earth he types out a response.

_< ikr me too  
< ugh._

He puts his phone down on the bed, looking up at the water-stained ceiling, amusement slowly fading. His pulse though, that doesn’t return to normal.

How could it when his mind suddenly runs away from him, evoking short-lived, but nonetheless strikingly vivid images of intertwined legs, planes of pale skin, and lush lips. How can the heat in his stomach escape when his thoughts conjure phantom sensations of a soft mouth sucking on his neck, the punishing grip of hands on his hips and the warmth and weight of another body on top of his own.

A forehead leaning against his, brown eyes that knocked his pulse off kilter.

The taste of nicotine.

_Stop it._

That is dangerous territory right there. And a line he doesn’t want to cross.

Shaking his head, Peter swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, looking anywhere for a distraction; his window, the posters on his wall, his figurines on his shelves, anything to douse the low-burning fire in his gut.

Standing, he heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed, banging their crappy old heater with his fist to get it working again.

He takes a very cold shower.

\----

It’s not that Peter doesn’t enjoy sex.

Not that he’s had it or anything, but he's sure he'd enjoy it if given the opportunity.

At the very least he enjoys jerking off, likes experimenting with his own body, but like, a regular amount, whatever that is for a teenage boy. He knows he likes kissing from his limited experience. He likes thinking about one day being in a real relationship and exploring someone's body and having somebody explore his.

It’s just that he doesn’t let himself think of anyone he knows personally that way. No matter how conventionally attractive they are - not the time he had a crush on MJ, not Thor, and especially not _him_.

Typically, his fantasies are people with vague features, sometimes with bodies like those he has seen in porn, all shapes and sizes. And that’s safe for him. He doesn’t want to have to look anyone he knows in the eye and allow his thoughts to stray where they shouldn't. He doesn't want to wonder what their lips would feel like pressed against his own, if they’re any good at kissing. If they’re the type to take control or cede it.

Because it doesn’t matter if it’s a person or a thing. _Want_ is never superficial in his experience, it doesn’t feel good most of the time. It’s deep and sometimes dark, it sinks itself into him with its hooks and it tugs, and keeps tugging. It yields to craving and yearning.

Back in his bedroom, his eyes land on his wall-mounted mirror. It’s small. Like the Mona Lisa. Small enough that he doesn’t have to see his whole reflection if he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to crave and yearn for anybody, because he knows it will always be one sided. He’s well aware that he isn’t exactly centrefold material. Who is gonna look at his weird ears or thin lips, and think, _shit, that’s the guy of my dreams_. Not with his big glasses or the way his hair twists itself into frizzy, unruly curls once the gel wears off and he starts looking like an unkempt labradoodle.

Who would want to wake up next to him? No one.

So it’s better not to risk imagining anyone real. It’s only in his head that anyone could ever want him back.

He does wonder sometimes, though. No matter how much he denies what or who he wants, he's only human. And it feels better than it should.

His eyes go from the mirror to the jacket folded and placed on his desk. It was intended to be plain sight so he remembers to bring it in - _out of sight, out of mind_ , is what Ben would say. He can still smell the cologne Tony denied wearing earlier.

Once he’s in bed, he buries his nose into his pillow and turns to face the wall.

Out of sight, out of mind.

\----

Maybe Tony subscribes to that mantra as well.

Peter forgets to bring the jacket in all week and Tony doesn’t ask.

\----

Danvers wants him fit and ready to be harpooned into the mud by next week; that’s why she looks the other way when Thor and Peter take their informal training in the boundaries of the field, stretching out on the grass as the JV team runs their usual morning drills - drills Peter would have been a part of before his stupid injury and his stupid wrist-brace.

This school is stupid too. Now he has to pay to see a doctor so he can get medically cleared for a sport he doesn’t really care that much about. As if he didn’t have enough medical bills to deal with.

In any case, he’s not really in a position to complain, because he has the opportunity now to run through his warm-up with Thor, who is taking his direction to spread his legs into a butterfly position so beautifully, even as his knees raise from the ground to make a v-shape, whereas Peter’s lie flat on the grass.

If the last few days had been different, he might have blushed and used the situation at hand as an opening to place his hands on Thor’s knees and applied pressure. But now he just smiles encouragingly and reminds himself that he has no chance - no place - and his hands do not belong anywhere but his own body.

And surprisingly enough, he’s okay about it all.

Thor was a good guy. Peter will never say no to having more friends.

It’s a dreadful, bitter morning. Icy cold, wind biting into his shirt, the grass below them is damp. He has to keep rubbing his hands together so he can restore feeling in his fingers.

To make things worse, Tony is back on the bleachers. Rhodes and Potts slouch on either side of him, swapping phones over his idle figure, taking pictures and laughing amongst themselves, trying to engage their friend who is clearly uninterested, or asleep. He's definitely not dressed for the weather, covered in only a white v-neck, jeans and dark sunglasses. It's overcast and is definitely going to rain soon, but there his is, sprawled out over a set of steps, legs askew, arms behind his head, unmoving as if he were napping or sunbathing, appearing like a cocky main out of an eighties movie.

Or a king surveying his kingdom.

“It burns,” Thor says lightly, hands on his thighs in an attempt to aim his knees to touch the ground.

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, despite the ease in which he can lean in. “It just takes practice, dude. Twenty minutes a day, warm up and don’t over-do it. You’ll be limber in no time.”

“You can do this better than I can,” Thor argues, accent thick as he tries to lie flat like Peter.

“And you can lift a hundred pounds better than I can,” he tries to rebut, even as they switch positions, hip flexors aching with old injuries.

While the stretches are like second nature, he doesn’t miss the pressure of training for competition. The eagerness to get into a flat butterfly or oversplit. There was no argument that he spent nights on crunches back then, and he was somewhat toned - but he was shit at weight training. He hated lifting. Reps were more boring, more tedious and difficult and the diet required to give them any value was frankly not worth giving up a great hotdog or a loaded sub from Delmars. He wouldn’t go back to it now.

None of that old heat is there when he inspects Thor’s form. That quick simmer, the call to be closer. That terrible thing, want. All but gone. awe is still there, as he suspects it always would be with someone as outstanding as Thor, but the butterflies have very much flown away.

As he suspected would be the case. He has someone and they’re happy. With the cat out of the bag Thor had shown Peter pictures of his boyfriend all morning. He’d gotten a puppy, apparently, which just tickled Thor. He was so happy it was almost sickening.

When is it gonna be _him_ that sickens someone with photo’s of his partner?

“Hey, Parker,” Tony yells from the stands, “you suck!”

Looking over, the idiot is raised on his elbows and grinning, like he’s proud of himself for a spectacularly unoriginal insult. Rolling his eyes, Peter gives him the finger and he gets one in return.

His stomach twists and he has to duck his head to conceal his smile.

“Your husband is somewhat rude,” Thor says, following Peter’s example and switching from a pike to a lunge.

Peter looks back over to the stands. A cigarette now dangles between Tony’s full lips, sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose. That’s how Peter knows he’s looking at him too.

Even from afar his eyes are round and mirthful, framed with ridiculously long lashes like a cartoon mouse, far too outlandish for any real person to have.

“He’s the absolute worst,” Peter bites his bottom lip, quickly averting his gaze. “It was an arranged marriage, to be fair.”

\----

Wednesday comes and goes.

Their assignment gets handed in, Peter signs it off to say he did his fair portion of the work and Miss Ahn beams at the both of them when she is handed the thick binder, looking all too pleased with herself.

They have a presentation of their work next week, after Thanksgiving, each pair expected to give five minutes of their life pretending that they’re passionate about schoolwork in front of their fellow students who don’t care.

After that they are completely unburdened. No study sessions, no car rides, and no fries dipped in milkshakes.

They’re embarrassingly hailed as a prime example of people working through their differences, as if they had come together and were now friends or something. From the front row Tony sneaks a furtive glance at Peter when she applauds them to the class.

“See, kids,” she says, “it wasn’t so bad working together, was it?”

Their eyes meet briefly.

“Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Tony declares, brash and loud, kicking his combat boots onto his desk in a leisurely display.. “That guy is the human equivalent of watching paint dry. Awful.”

“Oh, come on,” she chides. “Be nice.”

Not one to be outdone, Peter lets his horse out of the gate too.

“Singular worst experience of my life. I once had a root canal without anaesthetic and it was less painful than working with him.”

“Alright, boys, that’s enough out of you,” Miss Ahn sighs deeply, walking to the front of the room. “Mr Lang, how did you find the assignment?”

“ _Very_ informative…”

From the front row Tony turns in his seat and winks at him.

\----

“Thanksgiving plans?” Natasha asks, leaning beside his locker, smothering a smile as he struggles to get his locker open for the nth time that day with one functional hand.

“Visiting my Aunt and Uncle,” he says, finally prying the damn thing open. “They’ve got a place up at Otisco Lake, so. Probably watching old movies and swimming all weekend.”

“Oof,” his friend winces. “That’s a trip. Think the May-Mobile will make the distance?”

The May-Mobile of course to the ancient, ‘89 Volvo 240 that May has been driving ever since Peter was born. She adores it and refuses to trade in, despite the fact that it rarely gets driven, practically haemorrhages gas, and has cost more in repairs in the last five years than the actual value of the car. But May really loves it. It's sentimental. She says it was the car Ben and her picked out together.

“It better make it,” he dumps his books in, closing the locker. “I don’t want to spend the weekend waiting for AAA in the middle of nowhere. What’s your plans?”

She shrugs, walking with him down the hall.

“Probably go and annoy Yelena. Was supposed to spend it with Bucky and his mom, but that ain't happening.”

He bumps her shoulder sympathetically. “Do you think you two will get back together?”

“Probably. But he’s got a shitload of grovelling to do first.”

“Don’t maim him, please. We need him on the team.”

“No promises.”

“Speak of the devil,” Peter adjusts his glasses, spotting Bucky at the base of the stairs talking to somebody. He gets startled, heart jumping when Natasha grabs him by the waist, pushing him towards the wall and inching them closer to the stairs.

“What are you --”

“ -- Shh, I want to listen. Who is he talking to?”

Craning his head, he finds himself in for another surprise when he sees that the other person he’s talking to is --

“He’s… he’s talking to _Stark_ \- what...?”

She shushes him again and Peter listens, curious now too.

“... what do you want, Barnes?” Tony visibly grimaces, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tucking it behind his ear. “Make it quick. I got places to be and your noxious stench gives me headaches, you know this.”

An announcement goes off over the loudspeaker over their head, calling for Brendon Bennett, a dick of a senior, to move his car from where he has blocked a teacher from leaving. It would be funny at any other time, but as it goes, he misses a chunk of their conversation.

“...Rogers isn’t the boss of me.”

“Yes, he is, and I’m not getting suspended again because you’re a pussy and he has roid-rage.”

“I just need an ETA. C’mon, pal, I really need this.”

“I’m not your pal and I don’t give a flying fuck what you need.”

Ever the easy-going guy, Bucky puts his hands up placatingly as a group of students file down the stairs, causing enough noise that Peter misses whatever is said next. As he strains to hear he tries to draw the line between the dots, but comes up short on exactly how these two are connected.

“That fucker,” Natasha mutters near his ear.

By the time the students clear, Tony’s descended the stairs and begun to walk away

“I have better things to do than to sit around and wait for you,” Bucky calls out, giving him the finger.”

“And yet you will.”

Not in any possible lifetime was Peter going to address that he was weirdly relieved that Tony didn’t flip him off in return, some part of him petulantly thinking _that’s our thing_ , but that’s wrong and there's a quick flood of shame - Peter and Tony are not friends and they do not have things, and even when they do, there isn't any part of Tony that he has any claim over.

Nat grips his hand and pulls him along when Bucky leaves as well, swiftly walking away to avoid being caught. His backpack jostles at the speed and he realizes he’s still clutching Tony's jacket from where he had retrieved it from his locker.

“What was that about?” He asks, struggling to keep up with his friend's furious pace as he’s led down the hall. “Tash?”

She drops his hand once they are outside, her disapproval near palpable, voice laden with fire and fury. “That’s Bucky being a world class idiot, he’s gonna get himself expelled, I swear.”

Peter stops on the spot.

“ _Expelled_?”

Something dark curls unpleasantly in his gut, heavy and not leaving.

“They have a thing,” she explains hotly, mouth turning down. “Bucky and Stark.”

“What?” Peter breathes, uncomfortably thinking back to the party and the way Bucky overtly complimented Tony’s body. “Like a.... like a sex thing? Did he cheat on you?”

“What? _No_.”

“Then what?”

Red strands whipping in the wind, his friend looks around to see if there is anyone nearby before leaning in to speak low. He leans in too, unabashedly curious.

“Do you remember when Bucky was having issues with his parents when school started?”

He nods, thinking back to the times Bucky slept over in the late days of summer and early weeks of the school year, once or twice a week to get away from the shouting in his own home.

Natasha continues.

“Don’t tell him I told you this, but he got really depressed and fell behind with his work and everything he was handing in was terrible. Danvers pulled him up and said if he didn’t get his grades up, he’d be risking his spot on the team. So Bucky paid Stark to write up a few assignments for him, apparently he was doing it for a few kids, like it was a thing.”

...Okay.

That was not _good_ , and definitely disappointing, but -

“Rogers found out. He gave Bucky a warning, but with Stark he threatened to go to Fury.”

Peter thinks back to the fight between their captain and Stark and their fight not long ago. “That’s why they…”

“I’m told Stark snapped, but I don’t know. I found out about the whole paper thing after that and me and Buck fought about it. I just got so mad - he’s - he’s not stupid, you know?”

“I know.”

She exhales heavily through her nose. “He’s going to get himself kicked out of school and I’m so -- I could kill him. We’re supposed to graduate together and get away from our families and go to college, and then he does _this_.”

“I’m sorry, Tash, I didn’t know,” he hugs her, her body going stiff before relaxing in his hold. “That’s shitty. For both of you.”

“I’m sorry for thinking you were in on the loop.”

He smiles, self-deprecating as that thing in his chest festers a little further.

“Nope, I’m as clueless as ever.”

“No, you’re just too good for that,” she shakes her head. “Look, I gotta go and blow off some steam. Please don’t tell anybody about all this.”

“I won't, I swear - but text me later, alright? Let me know you’re okay.”

She ruffles his hair before stepping back, her eyes tired, but looking nonetheless better for getting it off her chest. “You’re a bleeding heart, PP. Keep an eye on that, will you?”

Hearing a squeal of tyres, he whips his head around to the parking lot, the source of the noise. The Firebird squeals out of the lot and onto the road, the sound as angry, the glimpse Peter gets of Tony’s face, even angrier.

He turns back to Nat, but she’s already walked away. Which means she isn’t there to hear him mutter to himself.

“What are you getting into, Tony?”

\----

His thumbs hover over his phone that night, as he writes _i saw u with barnes today_.

He quickly deletes that, not wanting Tony to think that he was following him or spying on him - or worse, thinking that Peter actually cares about what he does. He doesn’t. They’re not friends.

A dread settles in the spaces between his ribs, like thread trying to squeeze them together too tight, compressing his lungs. Maybe it’s his asthma, or late seasonal allergies.

It’s not and he knows it. It's dissapointment.

He rubs at his chest on his way home thinking about the scene they just saw and about what Natasha said. How is it that so many people in his orbit had this entire entanglement going on without Peter having any whiff of it? It really makes him wonder if they were they good at hiding it or was he just really fucking stupid. Stupid enough to think Bucky was doing okay, that Rogers wasn’t as sanctimonious as he appeared to be, and that Tony was --

Never mind.

It’s none of his business and it’s not his place.

He knows better than to ask. It’s not as if he can forget all his own secrets that he clutches tightly to his chest, so tight it feels like he constantly walks through life with his fists clenched.

That and, like May, the real truth is that he can’t claim any entitlement to their trust. He eavesdropped in more ways than one these last two weeks. He tries to brush off that dry, sobering thought; it’s none of his business anyway and he has enough on his plate without getting involved.

_When are you going to stop being such a goddamned martyr._

So then he thinks about the sheer fury on Tony’s face, how his - how he used to look at Peter the same way, and how Peter used to think that angry and bitter was Tony's default mood. That was that. The status quo.

Well, that wasn’t entirely fair, was it. It was easier to dislike Tony when he was distant enough that Peter could pigeon-hole him into a stereotype. Because Tony got into fights, sure, countless and petty, and he was quick to anger, sure, possessing a temper like match stick, dormant until he was rubbed the wrong way. But he was also the guy who pet puppies and snuck them food under the table. Not the guy who kicked them.

He looked like the puppy that was kicked, though.

Not angry.

Wounded.

And that’s what confuses Peter. Turns out he doesn’t really know anything about his friends.

Or Tony, it would seem.

\----

May closes the drivers-side door and throws a packet of snacks into Peter’s face.

“Pretzels.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he adjusts his glasses where they'd been knocked askew.

“Sorry, I thought your reflexes were better,” she says, and by way of apology, lobs a packet of sour gummies more gracefully on his lap. “Your favorite.”

“Apology accepted.”

From a plastic bag she fishes out two cokes and places them in the centre console, a bag of red liquorice and crackers follow, also making their way onto his lap. She always buys too much food.

Then they’re turning back onto the highway that leads them out of where they paused at Monticello, the radio jacked up loud enough to be heard over the tiny droplets of raindrops sporadically hitting the windshield.

They’ve left early enough that it’s still dark.

Fog still hangs low on the roadside, intangible pale wisps that seem to disintegrate upon crossing, the road dotted with other travellers, but not too crowded, enough so they can easily cruise the speed limit and sometimes over. The Bangles play on a cassette tape and, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, May looks so carefree, driving her sentimental car with the noisy engine, singing along to the same cassettes she’s had since she was his age.

Peter can’t bring himself to say what he wants to. About the letters. One in particular. He knows something isn't right but who is he to break the peace when it was so rare?

So, he doesn’t, and they keep driving.

The fog lifts and the tunes continue, both of them singing familiar tunes from ABBA to George Michael and Peter let’s go of what he can’t control and loses himself in the buoyancy of nostalgia - neither of them can carry a tune for shit and it’s funny, and when he rolls his window down he sticks his hand out to feel the frigid air, it’s the most free he’s felt in a long time.

Football and his after-school duties and everything else just drifts away with the wind, at least for this moment.

It was like when he was a kid, almost, minus Ben singing in the front seat, and minus the back-seat induced motion sickness. The route itself is mostly dark and dull, and this time without Ben, but their usual car games of ‘dollar every time you spot a windmill’ and ‘how many minutes until the next town’ are fun and easily pass the time. This will be another memory that he will gloss over with fondness, how even the boring roads will seem like rapture.

When the sky starts to turn from black to grey they stop for early breakfast at a diner just slightly off their trail in Windsor, both of them famished despite the hoard of snacks and in dire need of coffee.

The car is beginning to emit pale plumes of smoke from under the hood as they arrive at Davis Grove, Otisco Lake in the early morning. The sun rises low over the horizon, a slow ascent that turns the sky grey and brushes wriggling streaks of color over the lake.

The house is exactly as Peter remembers it.

Panels painted slate blue, brown-tiled roof. Two-storeys with a wrap-around porch and a private dock only a short distance away from the entrance. A swinging chair on the lawn that comfortably fits three and a half people. It looks exactly as it did when Peter first came here as a kid, plucked straight out of his memories in perfect form, like it was set in a liminal space that time refused to touch. A piece comes back to his being at this moment, something that he didn’t know was missing.

Aunt Margaret is already standing at the door when the pull up. She doesn’t look a day older than when Peter last saw her years ago.

“Oh, look at _you_ ,” she coos, wrapping Peter up in a tight hug, curls brushing his cheek, “my darling little Petey-pie.”

“Hey, Aunt Margaret,” he returns the hug.

“You’re so tall now, let me look at you,” she holds him at arm's length, warm eyes roving over his form. “Oh my goodness, haven’t you grown a handsome young man? Last time we met you only came up to my shoulders and had braces.” She turns her attention to May. “Isn’t he handsome?”

His aunt nods, smiling at them, both women gravitating into a tight embrace. “It’s good to see you, Peggy. Thanks for having us.”

“Our pleasure. You look even more beautiful than the last time.”

“Oh, stop,” May releases her, wiping at her eyes. “Look who’s talking.”

She tilts her head to the porch and takes May’s duffle from where she has dropped it to the ground. “Come on you two, inside. We’ve got the fire going and scrambled eggs on the table.”

Inside it smells like the best parts of his childhood. A burning fire and butterscotch and lingering musky-but-floral scent from the bowl of potpourri high on the mantel. Even the sounds are the same, the same coo of early birds in the burgeoning daylight, someone humming by the stove.

Margaret leads them into the living room, where her husband meets them halfway from the kitchen, oven mitts still on his hands when he spreads his arms wide to welcome them.

“My goodness,” he beams, “look what the cat dragged in.”

He wears a cravat at the same time he wears an apron, looking every bit the formal yet whimsical man Peter remembers him to be and a crushing wave of nostalgia comes over him so suddenly he can’t help but rush forward and embrace him.

“Welcome, Peter. It’s so good to have you here.”

“Thanks for having us, Uncle Ed.”

“What have you taught him,” he points his query to May as he releases Peter to hug her. “You know you can call me Jarvis.”

\----

Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter and Edwin Jarvis had been young twenty-somethings when they first met. Both were born in England before moving to the US, but it wasn’t until they met at Margaret’s first college that their paths crossed. They worked in different departments, Peter thinks Ed was an engineer or something and Margaret an analyst, but the universe pulled them together eventually.

Margaret asked Ed out first and then a year later, May was the maid-of-honor at their wedding and Ben was reportedly a teary guest in the squeaky church pews.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

A photo of that day sits framed upon the mantle. May and Margaret have their arms around each other, Uncle Ben and Ed standing awkwardly at the sides of the frame, holding up flutes of champagne. They look so young. Happy.

Peter observes the photo, smiling. He would have been a baby back then. Before his parents and Ben had -- well.

His mind does these weird calculations sometimes. Like, the May in this photo is only nine or so years older than how old he is now, and this moment, suspended in time, makes them closer than they have ever been, even though in real life they are over twenty years apart.

Looking at this picture, it makes him wonder how many people he knows now will live full lives and die of old age. How many people his age will stay forever young, and who will be in the future looking back at their time now, wistfully staring at pictures of those who only exist suspended in that time.

It’s funny, being a teenager. His peers are too young to die so they assume they won't. Even in their twenties and thirties or forties, death seems like an elusive thing that doesn’t apply to anybody until it does. It’s for the decrepit, the sick.

But in Peter’s case death comes like poorly aimed darts, always landing badly and scoring low. In his pockets, his hands turn in fists. He hopes the three people left alive in this picture get to grow old.

He smells her perfume before he sees her. Margaret approaches, bumping their hips together.

“This was a nice day,” she says softly, wistful. “I wish we’d kept more contact over these last few years.”

“Me too,” he smiles sadly, her expression reflecting his. With a hand on his back she leads him to the couch.

“Come on, munchkin, come sit. Tell me how you have been.”

\----

“We weren’t planning on the big dinner,” Uncle Ed says as he finishes peeling a potato, handing it to Peter once he’s done. “But we’re so glad you two joined us. Neither of us have a lot of family here, you know.”

“Us neither,” Peter runs the peeled potato under running water to rid it of dirty residue before chopping it into quarters. “It’s really nice to see you again, it’s been way too long.”

“You really have grown into such a nice young man,” the man smiles. “Ben would be proud. Your parent’s, too.”

“Thank you.”

They haven’t got together like this since Ben died a couple years back. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Shit happened and it got harder to try. May got busier with looking after Peter full time and working more - and Uncle Ed quit his job and opened up a garage and Margaret lost a baby - all at the same time.

It was a lot for everyone. Even college best friends moved apart when fate put up walls at every turn.

It seems everyone in his circle is just does their very best to survive. Or maybe that’s just what growing up is.

The remainder of their morning is spent eyeing the oven and skedaddling while Margaret prepares her pecan pie, ejecting them out of the kitchen with a forceful shoo.

“May says you’re playing football,” Ed says, leading him out to the lounge, passing him a can of soda. “How’d that happen? Last I checked you were doing splits over a pommel horse.”

Peter shrugs, tapping his can with his fingernails, idly paying attention to the football on the old TV. “Needed an extra-curricular, there was an opening and for some reason they accepted me.”

“You were so good at gymnastics,” Margaret comments from the kitchen, whisking away at her bowl. “I’m sure you’re exemplary in anything you do. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, sculling back the rest of his drink, bubbles burning down his throat. “Looks good on college applications in any case.”

“This kid,” May points to him with her beer bottle. “He does it all, I don’t even know how. He’s brilliant.”

_I could do more_ , he thinks. He wonders again in that moment what it is that makes him so deficient that May couldn’t rely on him to accept the truth about their situation, that maybe he was just too naive. But he’s not. He’d drop his after-school activities and get a job in a hot second if he thought it would help. And for just a split-second he’s mad about that, about being kept in the dark.

But then he sees the strain around her eyes, how the bottle in her hands trembles ever so slightly, how much she makes the hard world soft around them. And it’s easy for him to let that feeling go.

“You’re still freelancing?” Peter asks Margaret, momentarily distracted when Ed’s phone lights up with a call.

“Excuse me, terribly sorry,” he says suddenly, picking up the phone and answering it, rising to his feet to converse in the adjacent room.

“Yes,” Margaret says, eyes lingering over where her husband has gone, his voice carrying over the walls in worried, muffled tones. “Well, consulting. I can work from home, which makes it easier to take care of all my non-existent children,” she gestures to the empty room around them.

“You could go work with Jarvis,” May retrieves a new bottle, popping the cap. “Look after the books, help him replace tyres.”

“Tempting,” Margaret says dully, rolling her eyes. “Can’t understand why I haven’t done that yet.”

Jarvis re-enters minutes later, hands held out apologetically; whispering to Margaret first before he addresses the room.

“Um, we have another guest coming up for dinner, if that’s alright,” he winces at their blank faces. “He works for me. Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite. You know how it gets over the holidays.”

Peter meets May’s eyes and shrugs. Anyone working under the business and is vouched for by his surrogate uncle is good by him.

“The more the merrier,” May raises her bottle.

After that, the kitchen needs his hands again.

\----

The afternoon is spent preparing the sides, checking in on the truly gargantuan turkey and indulging their cat with nibbles and head scratches. May and Margaret spend the time drinking beer and cider, reminiscing their college years. It’s nice to hear the house full of laughter, given how somber the mood was when they were last all together.

“When did you get a cat?” Peter directs his question to Jarvis, accepting a peeler from him to attack the carrots.

The cat in question is completely black and delightfully plump, not overly so, but enough to indicate it’s decently fed but probably also a little lazy. Or maybe he just thinks that now that it lies tall on the peak on its scratching post, tail flicking idly while it watches them work tirelessly in the kitchen from above. It reminds him of the cat that strides purposefully through Delmar's, perching on the most inconvenient locations as if to remind the humans they are in his space.

“Oh, about a year ago. Gives Peggy some company while I'm in the garage. She’s a sweetheart, this one.”

“What’s her name?”

“Friday the Thirteenth. Friday for short.”

“That’s, um, unique.”

“Was the day we adopted her,” Jarvis reaches up to scratch her. “And she’s a black cat, so, you know; spooky.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering it. “I like it.”

“Not bad, huh.”

“Yep. It’s a better name than _Molly_ ,” he mutters, shaking a slimy carrot shaving off his fingers.

Jarvis pauses. “As in Ringwald?”

Peter sighs and continues peeling.

\----

“Did I ever tell you about the time May came to class in a bathing suit?”

“I don’t think they need to hear that --”

“So we have this exam,” Peggy says, ignoring May, “Super important. Fifty percent of our overall grade. She comes in late, _dripping_ wet, the biggest hickey on her neck I have ever seen --”

“ _Peggy_.”

“-- Only thing saving her modesty was Ben’s shirt over her shoulders. I had to lend her a pen so she could sit the exam.”

“Did you pass though,” Peter asks curiously, shovelling a large lump of mashed potato into his mouth.

“Top grades,” she winks at him.

“She sat there for two hours, dripping water onto the ground and got flying colors. Meanwhile I’m the idiot who studied for weeks and got marked down twenty points for --”

The end of her sentence gets cut off by the sound of a car approaching the property, headlights flashing through the windows.

Then, a knock at the door.

“Ah, that must be…” Ed trails off, wiping his hand on a napkin before standing. “Excuse me.”

He goes to answer the front door, Margaret continues her story albeit much more quietly until the voices of Ed and their guest filter through, becoming progressively louder.

“Sorry to intrude, I know it’s the holidays --”

_Wait_ , Peter's heart thumps. That voice is familiar.

“Nonsense,” Ed interrupts, “you know you’re welcome anytime. You’re practically family, kid. Come in, we’re eating now, you’re just in time.”

Peter’s fork clangs loudly on his plate when he sees their visitor, unable to keep his grip on the utensil as his limbs start to tingle. He forgets how to breathe for a second, entire body going hot.

Ed’s arm is around Tony Stark and they’re approaching through the living room, heading right for them. There’s a fresh cut on his lip and an ugly, wreath of bruising around his jaw and neck, deeply purple, speckled spots of burst capillaries visible from even where he’s sitting.

The worst part isn’t the intrusion. It’s how Tony looks unlike himself; he looks small and skittish, gaze flicking nervously around the room, arms curled around his waist. Something in his chest starts to feel the closer he gets, weird, hot and unwieldy, burning, like a hot poker has been drawn across his sternum.

“You’re the best, Jar...vis,” Tony trails off when he spots the Parkers, eyes zeroing in on Peter.

“Um,” Peter says, sharing a surprised look with May, not knowing what else to say. He doesn't get the opportunity to say anything else because suddenly Tony is shaking his head, shrugging out of Ed’s embrace and backing up, the skittish look gone and replaced with anger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. No _fucking_ way.”

Then he turns, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the wait loves x


	8. Eight

The silence that follows Tony’s exit only lasts for a single, deafening heartbeat. 

In the seconds that follow the aftermath, silent and struck with confusion at the lightning-quick turn of events, Peter doesn’t remember getting to his feet and excusing himself. He just remembers that the moment he decides to act feels impossibly longer than it should, punctuated only by the harsh slam of the front door.

Ed, understandably, seems to be suspended with indecision, rooted to the spot in the living room with his hand suspended in mid-air, visibly torn between his guests and, well, his other guest. Without thinking, Peter gets to his feet and doesn’t bother to excuse himself before leaving the table and following the trail of fire that Tony left behind. 

“Pete,” someone calls behind him.

“Stay here, I got this,” he turns for a moment, hands held up placatingly, heading out through the living room, out the front door, heart thumping loudly in an effort to beat itself back in sync.

Outside it is bitterly cold, is the first thing he notices, pausing on the porch. The furious, freezing winds whip at his face, his bare arms, making his eyes water as he scans the area. Stark is stomping furiously towards his car when Peter spots him, a shadowy figure against the dying sunlight. He sets into a jog to catch up, remembering at the moment that his bare feet touches the dewy grass that he hasn't put any shoes on. Too late for that now.

“Tony,” he yells through chattering teeth, chasing after him nonetheless. “Wait!”

“Fuck off,” Tony snaps without looking back, hands balled into fists as he continues to hurry away. 

Peter winces when he steps on a stone, the arch of his foot alight with sharp pain that shoots up through his foot, but he doesn't allow his pace to falter, the gap between them narrowing. “Where are you going? What are you even doing here?”

“You don’t have to worry about me ruining your little Hallmark family moment, Parker,” Tony pulls out his keys without pause. “I’m getting the fuck outta here.”

“Wait,” he stresses, not understanding what exactly is happening. “Tony, _wait_.”

He makes the stupid mistake of getting between Tony and the driver's-side door, a thoughtless effort to keep him from leaving, one that seems to backfire rather spectacularly when Tony gets inches away from his face, seething. This close, his fury is palpable, and he suddenly seems taller, larger, coming at Peter like a tempest, swift and devastating.

“ _Move_.”

Face set in a snarl, he looks angrier than Peter has ever seen him. “Tony, wait for just a second -”

“I said get out of the fucking way.”

He flinches when two palms slam down on the car on either side of him and Tony is suddenly towering over him, his eyes dark and unrecognisable, caging him in, just as Peter has done to him, neither of then letting the other leave. He's uncertain now, unsure if he's pushed him too far, if he'd completely underestimated Tony's limits. 

Swallowing down the uncertainty, he speaks loud enough to be heard over the wind.

“Calm down, okay? Can we just _talk_ -”

“You have three goddamn seconds before I -”

“Before _what_? What are you going to do,” he juts out his chin defiantly, even though his whole body is trembling now. “You going to hit me, huh?” With courage he doesn’t really feel, he stands up taller, until they're nose to nose and he can feel his warm breath on his face. “Go on, asshole. Do it.”

Just as he'd hoped, the provocation gives Tony pause, lips pursing gaze flickering between fury and doubt. He doesn’t move his arms from where they have blocked Peter in, but Peter can see the opening he’s managed to create, as if Tony were a ticking bomb with seconds left before zero and he has one short-lived chance to cut the right wire.

Adrenaline racing through his veins, utterly terrified of making the wrong move, he circles Tony’s wrists with his fingers, pressing gently, intent on pushing him back. But Tony doesn’t budge at all, he just stares Peter down until the harsh, offensive anger written over his face retreats into defensiveness.   
  
Tony dips his chin for just a second before meeting his eyes again. It's like seeing a portcullis slam down between them. There is no playfulness, none of the usual warmth, not even the heat from moments ago, just Tony looking at Peter as if he were a stranger. He knows then, that any camaraderie they developed has swiftly vanished in a puff of smoke, perhaps irredeemably. So, it’s come to this again, Peter supposes, disappointed.

“I’ll stay out of your way if that’s what you want, but just don’t go, alright. Ed was really looking forward to seeing you.”

“It’s _Jarvis_ , not Ed, you braindead asshole,” Tony says finally, voice hoarse. “And stop holding my hands, I’m not your fucking prom date.”

Immediately Peter nods, putting his hands shaking hands up in surrender. Tony steps back then, hands still clenched into fists tight enough that the skin around his knuckles is ghostly white, albeit lowered at his sides, his whole body still so guarded that Peter is sure that even a twitch would provoke him into a further fit of unbridled rage. 

“I don’t know how you know them,” _or what happened to you_ , Peter says, softly, as to not spook him. “But you shouldn’t drive off. It’s late and you’re angry.”

“I'm angry because _you’re_ here.”

He lowers his hands slowly, cautiously. Despite the force of Tony's bluster he can see the forest for the trees, at least, he bets on it being misdirected anger. He can deal with that, even if he thought they were past that, and even if it stings all the same.

“I know, but I can't do anything about that. I told you about Margaret and May. Just come inside, okay? I’ll stay out of your way," he repeats.

The other boy still looks uncertain, but his anger is draining out of him fast, the rigid line of his shoulders slumping, arms crossing over his chest in a last ditch attempt to protect himself from whatever phantoms he is seeing in Peter. 

A little heartbroken by the sight, Peter croaks, “Please.”

Tony’s face falls before the impassive, drawn expression returns.

“I’m - I wasn’t going to hit you. I’m not like that.”

“I know.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re - I’m. I'm sorry.”

“It’s okay, just -” he sighs, dipping his gaze to meet Tony’s, hoping to convey confidence, but Tony only holds out for a second until he looks down. “Let’s go in. Foods still warm.”

Tony keeps his stare affixed to the ground for a long moment that has Peter waiting with bated breath, still seemingly unsure and on edge, like the slightest misstep would startle him into racing off like the other day.

“Did Peggy make her pecan pie?” he then asks, very quietly, as soft spoken as Peter has ever heard him, arms unravelling to tuck his hands into his jean pockets. A pose that's more familiar to him, but the rigid posture is out of place, strange and foreign, contrasting oddly on someone who Peter has always perceived to be manifestly self-assured.

“Yeah, she made it,” he smiles encouragingly when Tony finally looks at him. “It’s good, right?”

“The best.”

“So, you coming?”

“Okay…” he exhaling through his nose. “I’ll stay for pie.”

Peter nods, tightening his arms around himself for warmth, and a bit for comfort. “Well, I can’t think of a better reason to be here.”

“The company does leave much to be desired,” Tony nods agreeably, but the words lack bite.

For a prolonged moment, neither of them move while the dust settles, maybe to be sure that no fists will go flying if either of them make a sudden move. Tony then tilts his head to the house encouragingly, pocketing his keys, waiting until Peter is in line with him to follow his footsteps. On their way in it's quiet between them, but their sides sway and brush together and Peter thinks, backwards and forwards, push and pull.

“Peter?”

He pauses before the front door, mildly startled by the use of his first name.

“Yeah?”

For a second it looks like Tony is going to apologise again, the corners of his lips turned down, his brow furrowed. But in the end he shakes his head, taking the contrite expression with it.

“Forget it. Let’s go in.”

\----

Inside, Ed and Tony exchange some hushed words in the living room, while the remaining occupants talk idly about the large, mostly untouched meal, as if green beans and canned cranberry sauce were the most interesting topic of the night. He can't tell if the lightness in their voices are for him, or for themselves.

When Tony re-enters with Jarvis his demeanour is still a touch skittish, eyes low, but no longer appearing like he’s bracing for a fight. No one mentions the theatrics, and, like the last it was all a deleted scene in real life, welcome him in. There’s a flimsy attempt to cover the awkwardness that lingers, everyone still clearly a little rattled, but May is the first to rise to give Tony a hug. 

Margaret makes a big show of bringing in a spare chair and providing Tony a plate with a veritable pyramid of steaming meat and sides, taking his face in her hands and kissing his cheek. 

And Peter sits there, awkwardly sipping his water far too frequently to be considered normal, trying to appear as unassuming as possible, staring at the print of Caillebotte’s _Rainy Day_ on the opposing wall, as if it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. Is he supposed to say something like _welcome! I hope you like honey-glazed carrots, we have plenty!_

With a similar air of queer ineptitude, Tony seats himself at the table, settling in tightly next to Jarvis, refusing to meet anyones eye. As soon as he is seated, Friday immediately leaps upon his lap and flicks her long tail in his face.

“You brought the literal embodiment of bad luck to the lake house,” Tony deadpans. “That explains everything.”

It’s enough to break the air of tension in the room as the adults laugh and Tony breaks out into the first genuine smile of the night, dropping his fork so he can scratch Friday under her chin. She purrs in delight at the attention.

“Well, this is such a surprise,” May comments lightly, though looks genuinely pleased to see the other boy. She gestures between Tony and Ed. “How do you two know each other?”

They answer at the same time.

“They used to work with my dad,” says Tony.

“Tony works afternoons at the garage,” says Ed.

A beat of silence follows. No one moves.

“They used to work for my dad and we kept in touch. Jarvis lets me work for him after school,” Tony corrects.

Peter blinks, a little floored by this revelation, mind rapidly connecting the dots as he glances between them. No way. It's too uncanny. It's - well, Parker Luck, come to think of it. Christ. Ed knows Tony. Tony knows Ed. Tony has a _job_?

Utterly torn between being confused and oddly delighted, he recalls suddenly each and every time that Tony was antsy to leave after school, about his ‘priorities’, he was just trying to get to _work_. Like a real job with money and taxes and responsibility and clients and stuff. Holy shit. He has to take another gulp of water to centre himself and to avoid blurting out something like _what the fuck_.

Without voicing it, because of the mouthful of water he still hasn't swallowed, he mentally queries what on earth a trust fund baby like Tony is doing working a blue collar job, 'slumming it', in lieu of more appropriate terminology. It's certainly not for a lack of money, and certainly not because it was a normal after-school activity that rich kids engage in. 

But then Peter takes stock of his face, the finger-like shadows on the long column of his neck. He recalls all the injuries he has ever seen Tony bearing, and he suddenly understands. 

At once he feels very ashamed, and very sick.

From the corner of his eye he assesses Tony, eating slowly with one hand. Indulging Friday with the other, and Peter comes to understand that he’s either assumed too much about Tony or, given all the evidence, assumed too little.

He finally swallows the water.

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” Jarvis tops up his glass of wine, peering curiously between the boys. 

May explains, when neither of them speak up. “They go to school together. They’re friends.”

She utters the last part with marked uncertainty, evidently the scene from earlier still on her mind. Peter understands. Tony’s anger and fear play over in his mind too, not just from this evening. With a sinking heart he recalls the night at the party, remembers drunkenly accusing Tony of getting into fights on purpose, that he would openly, unashamedly indulge in being violent. And Tony, nonchalant, not reacting at all like Peter would have.

Peter might have hit him for that. But Tony took him home and took care of him. 

_Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite._

He feels like the biggest piece of shit in the world.

“I didn’t know you had a job,” Peter says delicately, swallowing down the bile in his throat, appetite lost. “That’s cool.”

Tony shrugs, sneaking Friday tiny cat-size morsels of food from his plate, getting smacked in the nose with her tail as a reward. He doesn’t offer anything other than forced nonchalance, even though Peter can tell his string is so tightly spun it's about to snap.

“Peter said you were good with cars, that you restored yours,” May mentions, salting her potatoes, missing the surprised look Tony sends the both of them. “Makes sense.”

“He’s a natural,” Ed beams proudly at his employee. “An absolute genius.”

“Told you,” Tony looks up from under his lashes and smirks at Peter, addressing him directly. _Genius_ , he mouths, pointing at himself with his knife, like an idiot.

Which is apt when Peter mouths back the word _idiot_ at him.

“That’s perfect,” May says, clapping her nephew on the shoulder, shaking him a little as if to rouse some enthusiasm. “Maybe you can diagnose the Volvo. You’re staying for the weekend, right, Tony?”

“Oh, no I’m not - I don’t want to intrude on -” 

“Nonsense, you didn’t come all this way for one meal and I’m not having you drive back in the dark,” Margaret cuts in, her voice stern, eyes knowing. At once, Peter knows she will have what she requests - she's always been a little lethal that way. “Stay the weekend, darling.”

“You’re having family time.”

“Stay,” May reaches over from where she sits opposite Tony, briefly gripping over his hands with hers. “It’s no bother to us, right, Pete?”

The entire table falls silent and the weight of several stares fall heavily on him, almost oppressively. But he’s only looking at Tony, trying to gauge his reaction. He’s met with an air of casual indifference, but the line of his lips is thin, and he’s stopped stroking Friday who meows up at him, disgruntled as a cat can be. 

Risking a sonic boom, Peter kicks him under the table, testing his reaction. He smiles when Tony’s expression goes from cautious to irate, eyes finally flickering with something more familiar, and he deservedly gets kicked sharply on his shin in return.

It hurts, but also floods him with relief. All is not lost, it would seem.

“Fine by me.”

As if he was ever going to say anything else.

\----

After dinner May and Peter corral their hosts into relaxing by the fire while they attend to the clean up, hushing any protests to the contrary with tried-and-true Parker stubbornness. Once they were sure the hosts were situated in front of the old television they’d set to disposing of the scraps, refrigerating the leftovers and cleaning the plates by hand. This, at least, felt like something erring on a normal night. He can wash dishes. There are no landmines to step on here.

They work efficiently like they do at home, May scrubbing with and Peter drying and returning the cutlery and dishes to their rightful place in the cupboards. It’s the least they can do for the hospitality they’ve been provided.

“It’s such a weird coincidence, don't you think,” May says lightly, passing him a freshly washed gravy boat. Peter accepts, swapping to the least end of his kitchen towel and swiping away at the porcelain. “Tony, I mean.”

“I know.” He shakes his head, ears pricking when he hears familiar dialogue from the TV. _Fellowship of the Ring_ is playing, he knew it. “Small freakin’ world, right?”

“Do you think he’s okay? With the whole,” she gestures to her face worriedly with a hand covered in suds. “You know, at home? Should I call somebody?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “He doesn’t tell me those kinds of things.”

“I just mean, I thought, y'know. You were...”

He accepts a dripping plate, piping hot from the running water. It scalds his fingertips upon contact and he nearly drops it before securing his grip, lowering it to the sink. “I’m what?”

“You know,” she hedges, voice deliberately upbeat in a way that puts Peter on edge. “Dating.”

“What?” He hisses, staring at her, dropping the plate into the sink with a clang. It's not broken, thankfully, but that doesn't impede him from staring at her with wild eyes. “No, we are not _dating_. Why would you even think that?”

She shrugs, squirting a large dollop of detergent onto the remaining stack of plates.

“It would be okay if you were. You can tell me.”

“We’re not,” he pauses his drying, mortification surely written all over his face, heard in the suddenness in which he stacks the dinnerware. “We don’t even like each other like that. Trust me, that’s not what this is.”

“I’m just saying if it was, it would be okay with me -”  
  
“- oh my god, you did this with Ned, _stop_ -”

“- it’s just you two seem awfully close.”

“We’re not close," he refrains from an exaggerated shudder, lest his mind stray to unfavourable thoughts. "It’s not a thing.”

“Well, no need to sneak if it was.”

“It isn’t.”

“Okay,” she passes him the last plate and turns off the faucet, shaking her hands over the sink to rid the excess water. “I just never know. You’re awful good at keeping secrets these days.”

“Wonder where I learned that from,” he mutters, hastily drying the plate, placing it back in its cabinet a little roughly, throwing the damp towel into the sink. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he gives his best try at an innocent smile, wiping his hands on his jeans and backing out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you in a bit, just getting some fresh air.”

She halts his steps, gently grabbing him by the sweater. She looks sad, her heart bleeding enough for the both of them.

“Just let him know he’s welcome, okay. I think he needs to hear it from you.”

\----

The house felt too small for him, too many people, too many walls and not enough space for his frenetic thoughts to do anything but fester. So he headed out, hoping that the frigid air and the vast stillness of the night might bring him some calm. He used to do this, in the city, when things were really out of control. He'd climb to the rooftop of wherever he was staying and sit, breathe, take comfort in the everything around him. The lake house didn't have the same distracting hubbub of the city, but he still found serenity in their surrounds, the chirp of evening crickets, the opportunity to see the stars, bright, crisp and speckled, like paint splatters against black canvas, an inverse connect-the-dots. 

When given the opportunity, most people tell Peter that the stars make them feel small. That it reminds them that they are only just tiny specks in a gargantuan, ever-sprawling universe, inconsequential. But he's never really felt that way, when he’s lucky enough to have a view of the night sky like this, he feels bigger, interconnected to the universe that he knows is alway there but often forgets. It’s a moment to marvel at the stars dying before him and revere them light years too late. He feels like he's part of something, that this existence isn't all there is.

Perched on the top step and illuminated under the porch light, Tony has a burning cigarette between his fingers and, judging by the headphones over his ears, hasn’t noticed Peter’s presence. He’s not looking up at the stars like Peter has been, instead he stares out at the inky lake.

The yellow light does nothing to improve the horrible discolouration on Tony’s skin, casting shadows over the contours of his face. He tries to not stare as he sits on the step beside him, careful and slow, still afraid of being the catalyst that sets him off. But Tony makes no move to inch away, and he counts that as a tentative win.

They sit in relative silence together for long minutes, Peter peering up at the round, full moon as he digests the day, this arduous, long day, body aching with the effort of staying awake. It seems terribly wild that it was only twelve hours ago he was sharing pretzels with May and resigning himself to a delightfully boring, uneventful weekend with his aunt and people that he used to know, playing scrabble and skipping stones on the lake. 

That was the plan, of course, before Tony blustered in like the thunderstorm that he is, and always has been since Peter met him. Loud, dark, hard to ignore. He can't even say he minds. Thanksgiving has always been an unstable affair as long as he's lived. Between his parents and Ben and May working to support them all, frankly this isn't the strangest long weekend he's ever had.

And yet the boy next to him somehow makes this feel like the most notable of all.

Tony slips his headphones down to cradle the back of his neck and takes a drag before speaking.

“You want?” He offers the cigarette, face impassive. “You look tense.”

"I don't smoke."

"So?" Tony holds his hand out, unwavering. 

Peter takes the offered cigarette, staring curiously at the lit end, observing the way that the pale wisps of smoke that curl from the end, dissipating reluctantly with the wind. Maybe it’s the guilt in his gut that makes him do it, desperate for a distraction, or maybe it’s wanting to wipe away the morose contemplation etched on Tony’s face.

Instead of bringing it to his mouth, he stubs it out on the concrete, feeling satisfied when Tony makes an indignant noise. Appropriately, there is sharp elbow delivered painfully to his rubs for his transgression.

“Those are expensive, you know.”

Peter shrugs, popping the stub into Tony’s makeshift ashtray. “Maybe you should stop smoking. You’re going to look like a leather bag by the time you’re thirty.”

It earns him an eye roll as Tony fishes another smoke from his pocket, lighting it and taking a deep drag. 

“Wrong,” he tilts his head and exhales towards the sky. “I’m going to age like fine wine, princess.”

“You’re going to have emphysema before college,” Peter mutters, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his hands to keep them warm, tucking his arms to his chest. It’s so cold out here and yet, at a glance and in only a shirt, Tony doesn’t even seem remotely perturbed by the biting winds. 

It’s gotta be because he’s hellspawn. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

“This is fucking weird,” Tony says after a moment, “I don’t like it.”

Peter nods agreeably. Even in a city as vast and diverse as New York there were only six degrees of separation. Although, the surprise could have been avoided if Tony had mentioned his job earlier. He says as much.

“Would have," Tony flicks the ashes off the end of his smoke, "but it’s not exactly any of your business, so.”

Right. Because they’re not friends. They aren’t anything. They don't tell each other personal things for free, not when they can unearth them when the other isn't looking. Tony takes another drag and Peter weaves his own fingers together like a steeple for something to clutch onto.

“I didn’t lie,” he says, “in there. I think it’s cool.”

“I’ll head out in the morning,” Tony offers, ignoring Peter’s faint adulations, which admittedly, despite their sincerity, sounds a lot like pandering. 

“Don’t be dumb,” he sighs, a little frustrated. “I don’t care that you’re here. Might be nice to have someone around my age, actually.”

“What, you think we’re gonna sing _Kumbaya_ by the lake and tell each other ghost stories at night, or something? Thanks, but I’d rather jerk off with a potato peeler.”

“I’m not saying that. I told you I’d stay out of your way, if that’s what you really want.”

It’s disappointing to even have to say it. He thought they were getting along.

“You don’t gotta do that, it’s fine,” Tony flicks his ashes onto the steps. “Just leave me the rest of the pie and we’ll call it payment for putting up with your ass. But I draw the line at hymns by the fireside. I have a reputation, you know.”

No. Not the pie. Anything but the pie. 

Peter opens his mouth to argue, but shuts it quickly, eyeing the other boy as he puts out the cigarette in the ashtray. It’s a small price to pay, isn’t it really, for all of the time Tony has fed him, to absolve some of the guilt he’s carrying like a stone in his gut. And for respite, as he himself has had a long, topsy-turvy kind of a day - but undoubtedly not as onerous and difficult as Tony’s must have been. Peter may have had plans for the pie, but it's a small price to pay to keep him here, safe.

For Margaret and Ed’s peace of mind, of course. Also, because the mental image he’s conjured of Tony sadly eating pie all by himself is deeply amusing.

And maybe to soothe the weird ache in his chest, too.

“You really got a sweet tooth, don’t you,” he states, silently agreeing to the deal.

Tony sighs.

“You should see me on Halloween.”

\----

When they head back inside only Peggy and his aunt are still awake, though looking far closer to the verge of sleep, blearily watching a Charmed rerun, bottles of beers and mixers littering the coffee table. They perk up, however, when both boys enter the living room, and maybe it’s roaring fire, or the near darkness inside, but Peter suddenly feels as tired as they appear, warm and weary all at once, like a plug has been pulled unceremoniously from the base of his spine.

Knuckling his eyes like a small child, Tony looks much the same.

“Bed time,” May croaks, her back audibly cracking upon standing. “Come on, boys.”

Peter politely averts his gaze when May draws Tony into a hug, pretends not to hear how happy she is that Tony is staying. He extends that particular pretence when his counterpart stands stock still, hands reluctantly returning the embrace seconds too late to be natural.

While May washes up, Margaret leads them to the last room at the end of the hall. It occurs to him very quickly, that he hadn’t quite factored in the math when he implored Tony to stay the weekend. Their approach turns trepidatious when he realizes that there are only three bedrooms in this house and five people; a couple, an adult, and two teenagers. 

The hinges squeak horridly when Margaret opens the guest room door, revealing a double bed, a dated quilt and a musky smell that speaks of the rooms disuse. 

“If Peter doesn’t mind you sharing,” she says, gesturing to the bed that Peter had already dumped his stuff on earlier, “or one of you can sleep on the sofa, but you’ll have to share the bathroom. There are spare blankets in the closet.”

Peter’s heart pounds as they’re left alone in the room, staring at the bed, experiencing the sort of breath-stealing trepidation one he imagines might have when the roller-coaster you’re on gets stuck mid-way through a loop.

“I can...” he clears his throat roughly, gesturing to the living room. “I wouldn’t want to make you - unless you want to - ?”

“I’ll take the sofa, we can alternate,” Tony says with finality, already backing away, duffel slung over his shoulder. 

Peter, blissfully glad that Tony cut him off before he could embarrass himself by suggesting something foolish like _sharing a bed_ , says, “Okay, yeah.”

As a rare act of partisanship he locates the blankets and helps set up the sofa, providing him with one of the spare pillows from the bed. It's ritualistic and completely innocuous but fuck if it isn't weird.

While Tony uses the adjacent ensuite to brush his teeth and empty his toiletries, Peter waits, sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching the material between his fingers, listening to the tap water run and waiting his turn. It’s not a large bathroom and brushing their teeth together would be weird, too intimate, even though he and Ned or he and Bucky did it all the time. He and Tony aren’t friends. In fact, Peter doesn’t rightly know where their boundaries lie anymore, especially after tonight.

He supposes, for a start, that he isn’t supposed to feel an electric buzz around friends and frenemies. And he's probably not supposed to be nervous or overthink about brushing his teeth with someone he's friends with, or imagine the way their elbows would brush as they crowded the sink, or how their eyes would meet in the mirror and how maybe Peter might like that and, yeah, it would be super weird for them.

When Tony emerges he’s dressed only in his shirt and boxers, jeans slung over his arm, the glow of the bathroom light on the back of his head like a fiery halo. Somehow, seeing his bare legs for the first time, the curve of his calves, his naked feet, somehow was a lot more intimate than the idea of sharing a bathroom.

“So you do have something under all that denim,” he swallows, then cringes. 

“You gonna cream yourself at the sight of skin or something?” he asks on a yawn. “Hmm?”

“No. You’re just...so pasty.”

“Whatever you say. Anyway, I’m out.”

Peter calls his name without thinking and Tony pauses in the doorway, the muscles in his back tensing for a moment, as if bracing for a fight, before relaxing again. 

“I,” he says, unsure what he wanted to say. Settles for, “I’m glad you’re here.”

The look that Tony sends him over his shoulder is quick, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of gratefulness, and in Peter’s imagination, reciprocated fondness. That is until Tony taps on the door frame and opens his big mouth again.

“Night, Parker, I shall rid you of my pasty legs. Try not to get the sheets sticky thinking about my bare ankles.”

Peter sighs, fondness gone in an instant.

What an asshole.

\---- 

“You’re up late, kid,” May says the next morning, peering amusedly at his bleary-eyes and morning-induced disgruntlement over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Couldn’t sleep, his voice is hoarse with sleep, pouring himself his own cup of coffee and sitting beside her. “I kept hearing this clicking and beeping all night. You didn’t hear it?”

She shakes her head. “Was out like a light. Maybe someone was up watching TV.”

“Yeah, maybe. Where is everyone?”

“Peggy’s and Jarvis are in Syracuse.”

“Black Friday?” Peter wonders, recalling the hauls of gifts in his younger years whenever the couple would return from their hectic, discount driven ventures. It's a novelty to them, having grown up without it. 

“Yep.”

“And Tony?”

“Out front, working on the car.”

“You really put him up to work?” He asks, leaning against the counter, bringing the cup to his mouth to hide his disapproving slope of his lips. “Dude could probably use a break, don't you think.”

May holds her free hand up in defence.

“Don’t blame me. He offered and I turned him down. He’s stubborn, that one.”

“I’m very aware of that.”

“Once you’ve finished your coffee, be a darling and take out some water for him, won’t you? I would, but,” she winces, shifting on her seat. “My back’s killing me.”

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she waves her fingers at him dismissively. “Just slept funny.”

“Do you need anything?” he asks, thinking of maybe a heat pack or some painkillers, sure there must be some stashed somewhere.

She pats his cheek, smiling from ear to ear. “Maybe another biscotti, bubby, if it’s not too much trouble. Love you.”

There’s something to be read in the way that she doesn't meet his eyes to follow her statement. In his heart he knows May, knows that she is still lying despite his attempts to have adult discussions with her, in the frank and embarrassing way he’s had to open up to her when he was younger and felt frighteningly not himself - except he’s nearing adulthood now. And maybe that’s the kind of transparency he seeks from her, because that’s what adults do, don’t they, they bring down the curtain when it comes to serious things.

But he doesn't push the matter. Because she needs a break from real life too - and so does he.

He brings her another biscotti, and while he’s up, does as requested, filling a glass of water in the squeaky kitchen sink and takes a muesli bar from the pantry, pocketing another one for himself.

It’s chocolate covered and nearing it's expiry date. Not his favorite, more of a yogurt covered oats-bar fan, but it’s the least Peter could do for Tony’s free labour. 

Outside it’s still chilly, fog hangs low over the lake and frost clings to the grass in tiny crystals. In the distance there is a family kayaking out of The Narrows, a far away blur of bright boats and hi-vis life jackets, paddles parting through the still water like hot knives into butter. 

Taking a moment to breathe in the clean air, Peter marvels at just how quiet it is, compared to the city. No traffic noises, no subway nearby and no neighbours creating all kinds of racket at ungodly hours. The only apt words that Peter can think of to describe it is: _still_. Nothing changes here. Or everything changes here and the houses and the lake and the trees have the good grace to stay the same while the rest of the world is in constant metamorphosis.

Peter likes it here, mostly as a novelty thing, and even more so for the company. But he’s a city kid through-and-through, loves the people, the awe of the tourists, the near helter-skelter way of life. It was a reflection of the orderly chaos in his own mind. 

Here, there is nowhere to run from his thoughts.

Tony is bent over the open hood of the car, an old boom box by his feet playing Don McLean, a socket wrench in hand, twisting away at the insides of the car. He looks alive, completely in his element with his hands smeared with rust and oil, dexterous fingers at ease with the tool in his hands. Happy.

Here, there is nowhere for him to run from his feelings.

Because there it is again, Peter pauses, struck by the suddenness in which it blooms; that feeling from the other day. 

Not butterflies. It's like like pressing his thumb down on a bruise.

An exquisite ache.

It radiates through his whole body, his sternum the epicentre. Without thinking, he rubs at his chest, as if it might make the ache go away, but it doesn’t. It’s always been there, locked up in a little cage behind his ribs, but slowly freeing itself these last few weeks.

Tony turns as he’s approaching, twisting the wrench in his hand like a cowboy with a pistol. 

“If it isn’t Sleeping Cootie,” he greets. “He wakes.”

His mood seems to be greatly improved from the night before, back to his usual self, at least outwardly. Whether that’s a good night's sleep, or their surroundings or getting his hands dirty, Peter’s not sure, but he’s not complaining.

“Here,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the radio, holding out the water and the muesli bar.

He accepts with muttered thanks and drains the whole glass back, sticking the bar in his back pocket. Peter, for some silly reason, doesn’t stop looking at Tony’s bottom lip the entire time.

The ache ebbs and flows, the closer he gets, and when he boldly presses their sides together, it’s almost completely gone and unbearably worse at the same time. And so he lingers, for a moment that stretches far longer than a passing interest in the innards of a Volvo.

Tony seems to notice. 

“You know anything about cars?” he asks, pinching Peter’s side, smiling cheekily when he squirms, ticklish. “No?” he asks, dodging Peter’s protesting arms and pinching him again.

“A bit,” he elbows Tony back, their hands settling close enough on the mouth of the hood that their fingers brush. “Not much.”

“Stick around then, cotton-tail. Let me teach you a thing about radiators.”

\----

Peter knows a lot about robotics. He knows a lot about computers. Cars, albeit a different species, aren’t all that different. He knows the basics. 

But watching Tony explain in-depth the specific parts needed for specific models, the tools that are necessary, it’s another thing. It’s more than just soldering and nuts, bolts and pliers. Each model and make is like knowing a person. A Ford from a Peugeot, from a rear wheel to an auto transmission. It was like being a veterinarian, for big machines.

And so Peter watched as Tony explained that morning, and well into the afternoon, as enraptured as he’d ever seen him in what is evidently a deep love, flanked by the autumn trees and yellowing grades of sunlight. A memory he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget. 

He shows Peter the track of water through their radiator, the leak, the speed of water versus engine output. They will need a new replacement part, he says, he can probably do it for free with Jarvis’ approval, _which is so guaranteed_ , he assures, _it’s called a discount, hello_ , Tony had said, _but they will have to order the part in because this car is ancient and no one should drive these deathtraps_ -

“But in the meantime, we can put in some Chem-i-Weld, that should get plug up the leak long enough to you to the garage and we can replace it -”

Peter just nods, allowing Tony to manipulate his hands to drip coolant into the narrow opening of the radiator, the bright-green fluid dripping into the grass below when some spills over the steel mouth in their haste. 

At some point Margaret and Ed return with their purchases, bringing them lunch from the diner they’d stopped at, a couple of subs that they down heartily. Ed hangs around for a bit, listening to Tony’s assessment of the vehicle’s ails, nodding and immediately agreeing to the free repairs without needing to hear a pitch.

It wasn’t all that bad, he guessed, even when Tony deliberately smeared engine oil on Peter’s cheek and Peter punched his arm in retaliation. 

It was kinda fun.

And maybe Peter didn’t mind so much that their shoulders brushed, when he once would have shuddered. And maybe he didn’t squirm when Tony put his hand on the small of his back when he was pointing something out, but leaned into it.

In all honesty, it’s one of the best days he’s had in a long while. He tries not to read in too much that some of his best days lately were the ones where Tony was in it.

But of course, nothing is impermanent, and even good days go bad.

\----

Some time mid afternoon, Tony heads out to an auto store in town, keen on doing a full oil change on the car, which was completely unnecessary, Peter had argued, and was told to shut the fuck up in return.

Which, fine. He could afford Tony the distraction he was in clear need of.

He heads inside then, hungry and a bit sweaty and wanting to check in on May. He feels a bit bad for having left her to her own devices all day when she wasn't well.

It doesn’t take long to find her, she’s in the living room, fast asleep and snoring on the sofa. Margaret sits beside her on the armchair reading a newspaper, glasses perched upon her nose, bags of her purchases by her feet. He reaches over to gently retrieve the glasses from Mays face without waking, placing them on the table. Knowing his aunt she’d probably flail in her sleep and smack herself in the face and break them. She’s done it before. 

So has he.

“Poor thing has been through the gamut, hasn’t she,” Margaret mutters, without looking up. “I keep telling her to get on stronger medication.”

“For what,” he slowly rises. “What does she need medication for?”

She stares at him. “Her pain, darling.”

“What pain?”

Margaret swallows. “She hasn’t spoken about it with you.”

“No,” Peter says, “but I know something is wrong. I’ve asked. She won’t tell me.”

She sighs, dropping the newspaper to rub tiredly at the bridge of her nose, her glasses nudging up with the motion. “Right. Of course she wouldn’t. Look, Peter, it’s not my business to say, but she’s okay. Don’t fret. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“If there was nothing to worry about, why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“For the same reason you keep things from her.”

“I don't --” he stops himself. “She doesn’t think I can handle it, does she.” 

“Darling, you know that’s not why.”

No, he doesn’t know that. What he knows is that May always has his prescription filled every month, always two days before he’s due to run out of meds. He knows that when things start to go south for him she cries when she thinks he’s asleep.

But he voices none of this, says instead, “I’m just gonna get some fresh air. Do you need anything?”

She doesn’t, and he can’t get out there quick enough.

\----

Once, when Peter was thirteen, some jerks in his class found out that he did gymnastics. They teased him all day, called him a _fruit_ , a _fairy_. That it was no wonder Piggy Parker was queer. Which wasn’t untrue, he was indeed very queer, but it wasn’t because he did gymnastics and they didn’t need to shove him against a locker for it or call him a pussy. Getting punched for recreationally wearing lycra was just uncalled for.

That was the first time that Flash ever stood up for him.

And it was the day he first thought about quitting gymnastics.

Not because he didn’t like it. But because of the way Ben looked when he picked Peter up that day, how his face twisted when he saw Peter’s black eye through the rear view mirror. And then the way he spoke to May in low tones later that night when she had gotten home from work when they thought he was sleeping.

He was good at gymnastics, and he thought he loved it. But nothing was worse than the feeling he’d had that day, something monstrously dark and twisted in words like _burden_ and _shame_. It took over him.

He’d always been an anxious kid. He’ll never really know if it was the result of losing his parents young, the fear of abandonment, or if that’s just the way he naturally was. There were the panic attacks, the social anxiety, the waking up in the middle of the night so sure the world was ending.

And now this. 

He didn’t want any more pity or coddling.

The next day, on the way to school, he told Ben that he didn’t want to do gymnastics anymore. He didn’t have to tell him why. Ben already seemed to put two and two together. They argued about it. Ben said he was giving in and giving up and it doesn’t seem like he ever told May about how Peter wanted to quit because of that day, she never brought it up and he never told her.

But none more so than the day Ben died. The vehicle that would later become known as the May-Mobile was at a mechanic somewhere, something else had gone wrong with it, once again. So, keen to get Peter to gymnastics, despite his vehement protestations, Ben had borrowed a car from his work colleague, just for the afternoon. 

The front passenger seatbelt hadn’t been working, it kept getting stuck and couldn’t be buckled properly, so Peter had been sitting in the backseat. At the time he was tight lipped, giving one word answers, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. He wasn’t being taken seriously. Again. He was so mad that day, he hated everyone. Wished everyone would just leave him alone.

Then they were at a stop light.

Having gently tolerated Peter’s childish indignation the entire ride, Ben had turned around in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other steadying himself on the passenger seat to petition Peter to not give up. 

To tell Peter to just give it a shot, just keep going with it, that he shouldn’t give up what he loved for anyone. All the while Peter sat with his arms crossed over his chest, looking stonily out the windshield.

If he hadn’t been looking away from the road, maybe he would have seen the drunk driver that crossed traffic before it plowed head-on into their car. He might have been able to avoid it. If he hadn’t been such an ungrateful, insolent child, Ben probably could have swerved and survived. 

Peter never told May about the arguing. That Ben’s death was his fault.

She had enough on her shoulders. It was enough that he knew - and it was his to live with.

So in a weird way, he kinda gets it.

Doesn’t make the jackhammering of his heart ease any though. If anything, the air in the house starts to get thinner, the occupants more intrusive to a cohesive stream of thought, even if they aren’t in the same room.

Spying his sneakers by the door, he slips them on, too eager to get out to bother with socks. foregoing socks and taking a run by the lake.

He has blisters by the time the house has disappeared in the distance, but he doesn’t stop. Not when Tony drives past him, looking at him with surprise through the window, not when he feels blood slipping down his heels, not until he’s out of breath and his feet can’t carry him anymore. Even then, the thought of going back inside makes his stomach curdle. 

It’s not even that he’s mad. He isn’t.

It’s just that everything in his head, the catastrophe of it all, is too big, and the house is too small to contain it. The thought of stepping foot inside has him feeling claustrophobic.

So he walks along the dock and sits, hoping the outdoors will swallow his thoughts.

\----

There was something about this lake at this time of year. The leaves of the trees flanking the water, ruddy and ocherous, the way the water was so still as if it were straight out of that Monet painting, _Morning on the..._ something or other, he can’t remember. But if Peter sat down long enough and stayed still it felt like he became a part of the canvas. If he didn’t move he could stay, etched forever in the sublime tranquility. 

But something always moved, even if he didn’t. A bird. The light sprinkle of rain rippling across the lake. Tony settling down next to him on the dock, jostling him when their shoulders brush. 

“You look like a sulking pomeranian,” Tony says, apropos of nothing.

“Well, I’ve been called worse, I guess,” he replies quietly, digging deep to find amusement in the comparison despite the maelstrom of thoughts, the heaviness in his chest.

Tony nudges his side encouragingly. He smells like motor oil and rust when Peter breathes in. “Spill. Tell me what’s earned your scorn today.”

Peter looks down at his hands, somehow finding it easier to speak to him about all of this than anyone else.

“You remember the letter? The one from the hospital?”

He feels, more than he sees Tony stiffen beside him, the mockery gone from his voice when he answers. “Yeah. What ended up coming from that?”

“Nothing. May insists she’s fine. Peggy knows something but won’t tell me what, but says it’s fine.”

“Could it be possible,” Tony says dryly, “that everything is fine?”

“If it was, then why wouldn’t they tell me what the issue is?”

“Don’t know, princess.”

“I just wish they’d tell me so I can stop,” he points to his head and makes an explosion noise, “you know.”

“Adults,” Tony shrugs. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. Well, at least according to state law.”

He looks over to the bruising on the boy's neck, chest going tight at the sight. It must have really hurt. It must have been scary. “You seem to know a bit about that,” he hedges, still a little afraid of cutting the wrong wire.

“I guess,” Tony looks down at his hands. “Doing my best to live without one particular adult.”

_Has a difficult family arrangement and needs a bit of respite._

He clears his throat, willing his nerves to settle before he says the next part, the memories of the previous night at the forefront of his mind. “I know we’re not,” he gestures between them, “y’know, and I’m not your favorite person, but If you need a place to stay, you can always stay with us.”

Stark is quiet for a long minute as he looks out to the lake. 

“Thanks, but I don’t need any handouts. I can take care of myself.”

“Not saying you can’t. Is that why you work at the garage? And take money to help others cheat?”

“You know about that, huh,” Tony grins wryly, but it quickly fades, voice getting darker. “Yeah. Been saving up. And now I don’t have to ask anyone for anything.”

“You know that’s not a bad thing, right. You can ask for help.”

“I don’t _need_ help.”

“But do you want it?”

“Just leave it,” Tony says as gentle as he’s ever sounded, as if Peter were the one who needed comforting. “I made it this far. I know what I’m doing.”

Peter twists his lips, wanting to be defiant and try to give this guy hope from where it had clearly and literally been beaten out of him. But it’s not right to insert himself like he knows anything more about the situation than the glaringly obvious, it's not right to make himself a martyr. Like it was with Bucky, all he can do is be there, if someone wants him there.

“I’m sorry.”

“If you’re heading into a pity party, Parker, I’m going to stop you there.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry I just assumed that you were just some rich asshole, that you were an angry kid. That you were violent.”

“I am angry,” Tony interrupts, matter-of-fact. “I am violent.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. You don’t know me.”

Peter scoffs, shifting on the dock until his knee nudges Tony’s thigh, a small point of contact meant to keep them both grounded. He releases a breath when Tony doesn’t move away, and out of the corner of his eye observes Tony's fists unclenching.

“I know that you drove me home while I was drunk and paid for my meals when you didn’t even like me. I know you could have hurt me when you hated me, but you didn’t. You made sure I had a ride when it was raining.”

“No need to get all starry-eyed,” Tony shakes his head. “I’d clock Rogers’ stupid fucking face again if he wasn’t too chicken shit to come near me. I’m not a saint.”

“No,” Peter bumps their shoulders together. “But you are a sucker. And angry, violent people just aren’t suckers.”

“Says who.”

“Science.”

“That’s some pretty questionable science, Elle Woods.”

“How about you shut up and take my word for it?”

Tony exhales, shaking his head, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

They sit quiet and unmoving for a while, becoming still with the scenery again, becoming surreal with it, sitting long enough for the moment to process, and for Peter’s heart to stop beating so fast. But something always moves. 

By the time Tony moves to light another cigarette the kayaking family are back, tiny patches of yellow in the far distance. The sun has started to get low, taking the precious few degrees of warmth with it.

This time when Tony offers his cigarette, Peter doesn’t turn him down.

“Aren’t you afraid of getting my cooties,” Peter asks dryly, accepting the cigarette, placing the filter between his fingers, inspecting it. He’s never smoked before, never thought about it, never wanted to. May would lose her damn mind if she ever got whiff of nicotine on him.

“Terrified,” Tony nods seriously. “But, in the common interest of getting you to unclench, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“I am unclenched,” Peter mutters, bringing the cigarette to his lips, right where Tony’s lips were before and inhaling.

Tony’s only response is to lean back on his hands to leer at his ass, no doubt to evaluate that claim, his eyebrows raised dubiously in Peter's direction when he straightens. 

There’s only a split second for heat to curl pleasantly in his stomach before he inhales too quickly, smoke seizing the breath out his chest. The other boy laughs, whacking Peter on the back as he catches his breath, taking the cigarette back from his fingers.

Despite himself, a little embarrassed, Peter laughs as well, vowing not to take up that particular habit, not even when he wanted Tony to look at him like that.

“Alright, toots,” Tony says loudly, and without warning reaches over to tug the brim of Peter’s cap over his eyes. “Enough feelings for one day, I’m starting to break out in hives. Let me show you how to do an oil change.” 

\----

They head back to the Volvo then, Peter’s stomach growling which he ignores, his feet aching. He’s sure that these shoes must be ruined now, the blood from his heels tacky, sticking to the fabric of the insides of the sneakers. He just should have worn socks, for fucks sake. He guesses that's something that he and Tony have in common, a flair for the dramatics.

“I hit him first,” Tony says suddenly, breaking him from that thought. “I’m not a victim. I hit him first.”

His throat is immeasurably dry when he goes to answer, even though he’s not sure of what to say. He swallows and tries to buy himself time to find the right words, to be the person that a kid like Tony might need.

“He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have hit you back.”

“Yes, he should,” Tony’s voice is as rough as gravel. “You don’t get to hit people and not get what’s coming to you.”

He gets the acute sense that Tony isn’t talking about himself and, for once, he wisely doesn’t prod him on it, can see in the tautness of his body that he’s wound so tight the barest brush could have him snap. “Why’d you hit him?”

“He was talking shit about my mom. He wouldn’t stop.”

Peter observes him then, not really sure what Tony's relationship is like with his mother. He's never directly addressed her before. But, he thinks, it's a safe bet to assume that he must love her deeply. Not just because he fought to defend her, but because all the things that Tony loves deeply seem to be hidden from the world until Tony allows someone to see them, held so tightly to his chest that no small-measure of trust needs to be earned in order to have them revealed. He can't believe he ever thought that Tony was an open book.

“Where is your mom?”

“Cliffside.”

“Where’s that?”

From the corner of his vision he observes his profile. Tony’s lips twist derisively. 

“Malibu.”

Tony is quick to change the subject from there, though the conversation is light, the grit never completely leaves his voice much as he explains the relatively simple, if not tedious ways to do a complete oil change on the car. 

While Peter’s sure he’s never really going to need to know all of this, he let’s Tony gravitate to other easy repairs, apparently while he was getting oil he’d bought a new air filter as well, and also new brake pads, but without a ramp or a hoist, the pads couldn’t be changed, but keep them in the back seat and he’ll change them when he fits in the new radiator.

Peter lets him talk and talk and talk until his voice grows hoarse and the buzzing swarm of thoughts in his head go quiet.

\----

“What are you smiling about,” Jarvis asks later when Peter enters the kitchen, keen to help out with dinner. A lasagna, if the minced meat and flat pasta sheets are a sign of what's to come. He washes his hands free of all the dirt and oil before putting them to culinary use.

“Nothin’,” he treads over, taking the wooden spoon over by the sizzling pan, homemade marinara sauce underway. He dips a pinky in, tasting it. It’s far too acidic, verging on metallic, like as if it came straight from a can. “Needs sugar,” he says, scrunching his nose.

Ed leans over to taste, humming with agreement before pausing midway, sniffing his hair.

“You smell like cigarettes and grease. What on earth have you been doing all day.”

“Tony taught me how to do an oil change,” he says, spooning in a touch of sugar into the sauce.

“Did he? He’s a good lad, that one.”

Momentarily distracted by the sound of daughter, Peter pauses to sneak a glance into the adjacent living room where Tony is regaling May with some story, his expression open and comical, his gestures exaggerated and broad. She’s laughing though, snorting through her nose, which catches Tony by such surprise it sends him off into laughter too. Then, the ache in his chest is back, a dull throb.

It’s like the pain he sometimes gets in his right humerus, the pain he always gets on a rainy day. He broke his arm when he was eight, falling from the still rings during gymnastics training. The ache is noticeable, but it isn’t so bad.

Peter declines to respond, lest it get back to his protege, but silently agrees.

\----

Tony, it would appear, does not hold the same reservations as Peter when it comes to domestic tasks, like brushing their teeth together, if the way he barrels right on in to the bathroom, shoving Peter a bit when he reaches for his toothbrush, is any indication.

“Don’t you knock, asshole? What if I’d been naked?” Peter asks around the toothbrush in his mouth, somewhat vexed by the constant jostling as Tony vigorously brushes his teeth, nearly elbowing Peter in the head with the motions.

“Why would you brush your teeth naked?” Tony gives him an odd look, mouth covered in suds. “Weirdo.”

“That’s not what I -” he starts, stopping himself with an annoyed, minty huff. “Never mind. You’re such a dick.”

As he suspected, it is oddly intimate - for him anyway - the heat of Tony’s side pressed against his, their bare arms brushing. Peter pointedly looks away from him and gets a rush of self consciousness, oddly feeling a little vulnerable as he rinses and spits. Wiping his mouth free of any lingering suds, he makes the mistake of looking into the mirror. There, Tony addresses his reflection.

“You done yet? I need some quality time with the crapper.”

Peter scrunches his face up, shoving Tony out of the way so he can exit, the boys snickering following behind him as he heads to the sofa for his turn that night. Friday vacates her spot on the sofa, as if sensing his need for rest, leaping on the armchair with a magnanimous purr.

The sofa is pretty lumpy and smells faintly like mothballs and a bit like May’s perfume. It's not remotely big enough for him to get completely comfortable, but if Tony could suck it up the night before, so could he. He turns on his side, body exhausted after the long day. Body exhausted, yes, but as standard, his brain doesn’t know how or when to click off. The house is too quiet and his brain isn't. 

For something to do he takes his phone out and texts Nat and MJ and asks them about their weekends, hoping desperately for an opening in which he can talk about his own. Lucky for him neither are asleep and his phone lights up with their responses.

They’re two of his most reasonable friends. While the laughter and mockery he receives isn’t entirely uncalled for, and eventually subsides over the course of the next couple of hours, he values their opinion almost above all of their bloated circle of friends, classmates and teammates. 

_Call me if you need an out_ , MJ texts as a bookend to their conversation sometime near midnight. _Seriously, you'd be doing me a favor. My cousin Drew is here and he keeps talking about his anal fissure_.

 _Say the word if you want a rescue, I know how to hotwire Yelena’s bike_ , is what Natasha sends. 

He loves his friends.

He closes his eyes, thinks of Tony the next room over, and drifts, drifts away.

\----

He wakes while it’s still dark, not remembering having fallen asleep. 

There’s an ache in his neck, and a blanket over his shoulders that he didn’t put there himself. Odd. But then, maybe he did, he doesn’t remember falling asleep either.

Before sleep again tugs him under, he hears a faint _click, clack_.

\----

On Saturday, Tony wakes up to the sound of Northern Cardinals tapping at his bedroom window and the occasional chirp, and quite immediately regrets not bringing ear plugs or having an extra pillow to suffocate himself with. 

For some reason everyone says the red bird has a lovely song. 

Tony thinks they sound like squeaky toys being stepped on.

Consciousness is a horrible thing, and as soon as his brain becomes aware that he is, in fact, conscious, there’s no going back. Because now he’s all too aware of how unfamiliar the mattress underneath him is, the scratchiness of the sheets that bind his legs and how badly he needs to pee. 

It’s with his eyes half cocked that he stumbles over to the adjacent bathroom, waking incrementally. He shivers as his bare feet hit against the tiles and relieves himself, groaning deep in relief, heading into the shower after. 

Lucky for him, the water is blissfully hot and lasts long enough for him to wash and to soothe his aching lower back, compounded by sleeping on the sofa the night before and being bent over the hood of a car for hours yesterday.

Once out he wraps a towel around his waist and brushes his teeth, wincing when the cut on his lip stretches a little bit with the motion. Once done, he slaps his face with cold water to wake up a little more and prays to any deity listening that someone has put on a pot of coffee for him to guzzle.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, inspecting the fading bruises around his neck, refusing to think about how they got there. What’s important is _caffeine, mother-fucker_. The life source. Piping hot, right down the gullet. That’s what the doctor ordered. The doctor, being Tony. He could totally be a doctor if he didn't have to deal with blood and guts and could just prescribe people coffee.

Maybe he should be a barista. 

He’s so distracted by the idea that, as he turns to leave, he doesn’t notice the bathroom door being opened and walks straight into a tired looking Peter Parker.

“Holy shit, I’m sorry - “ Peter immediately apologizes, clutching a towel and a change of clothes, “I didn’t realize you were -”

It’s when Peter’s eyes not-so-subtly rove over his body that Tony quickly remembers, hair dripping droplets down his neck, that he’s half-naked and covered in a towel. His hands fly to cover his stomach and his nipples and he gasps, pretending to be scandalised for being caught in such a state of dishabille.

“Buy me dinner first, hornbag,” he chides disapprovingly, deeply amused when Peter stumbles back, gaze averted to the ground, mumbling more apologies. Tony can’t tell if he’s shy or just exceedingly polite, but his cheeks are blooming pink and he looks as if he’s trying to melt through the floor. It’s rather funny. 

Clearly a virgin.

“I’m just gonna...” he trails off, squeezing past Tony to get into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Tony places his hands on his hips and grins to himself.

Great start to the day.

\----

Despite the rough, splenetic start to the weekend and the shit-show that he knows he has to go back to tomorrow, Tony is actually, surprisingly, in rather high spirits. It's a brand new day and he’s not one to dwell too much on the past, so, that helps.

And it’s the location, too. The great outdoors and all that garbage, as people say. Except for the stupid birds who don't let him get his beauty sleep.

Maybe it’s the company as well that is uplifting. Parker excluded, of course. Could definitely do without that guy.

And his mood is definitely assisted greatly by the hot brew of coffee in his hands. 

“You complete me,” Tony whispers over the rim of his mug, taking another sip. It’s hot, almost scalding the roof of his mouth, but it’s so freaking good, his desire for it positively carnal. “Hell fucking yeah, baby. Get in me, that’s it, just slide on inside.”

Jarvis, across the table, blinks at him. “Are you quite alright there, Anthony? Do you two need a moment alone?”

Tony shakes his head, taking a bigger sip. 

“No, we don’t mind people watching.”

Friday enters the kitchen then, and upon spotting Tony, hurries over on her delicate paws to rub her head against his calves, her purr rumbling against his skin as she weaves through his legs like an infinity sign. He indulges her then, leaning down to scratch her tiny, furry face with his free hand.

“Hi, stinky,” he greets, delighted when she butts her head against his palm.

Pets are the best. Not that he has any.

“Don’t feed her,” Jarvis warns, “I already gave her breakfast.”

“Sure,” Tony lies, already sneaking her a sliver of bacon from his plate.

What. He’s helpless against big, watery eyes. It’s like he's hardwired into giving in to it, it's not his fault.

Speaking of, Prissy Parker is taking forever in the bathroom. By time he comes out, hair gelled perfectly into submission even though it’s mostly hidden under a Mets cap - _of course this loser goes for the fucking Mets_ \- Tony’s already on his third cup of coffee and is silently working on his ability to disassociate on command after having heard more anecdotes about May and Peggy’s college life than he ever cared to know.

“Long shower,” he whistles as Peter heads for the depleted coffee pot. “Took my advice about not getting the sheets sticky, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, punching Tony in he arm as he passes. 

Jarvis, who had been enjoying his tea, looks up in mild alarm.

“Gee, he’s so _sensitive_ ,” he leans in to whisper.

Peter’s eyes flash over to him as he waits for a new pot to boil, a flare of anger that Tony is all too familiar with. The fire in his eyes reminds him of when they first met, when Tony turned down his offer of friendship, a brilliant, flawless augury of many moments to come.

But Tony can see the heat for what it is, just a front. Because he knows, it’s all a mirage, isn’t it. Both of them. It makes him think of how their sides pressed together yesterday while working on the car, something that would have incensed the both of them in another life, would have had them flinching as if they’d been burned. Disgusted with themselves. Each other.

Sometimes still are.

But Tony knows; a flame manifests and scorches in resoundingly different ways.

What a fucking world, he thinks, that fire and singe. He sips his scalding hot coffee again, mouth burning as he locks gazes with Peter.

The smirk around the rim of his cup is sidelong and gleeful. What a fucking world indeed.

\----

Tony doesn’t know why he does it. Doesn’t know why he does anything, really, barring the gratification he gets from succumbing to his impulses.

Maybe that’s why he does it.

Or maybe it’s because of the terse conversation he overheard between May and Peter after lunch that day. Something about pain and medication, Tony doesn’t know, he wasn’t meaning to overhear. They were on the porch and their voices drifted in through the open door. He really was too busy kicking Peggy’s ass playing Super Smash on the dusty old Gamecube to pay attention to it. 

But what he does know, after his Zelda killed Peggy's Mario, is that May came inside and went to go lie down in her room after and Peter didn’t come back in.

It wasn’t until he went out for a cigarette some hours later that he spotted Peter, sitting by the docks, much like he had been yesterday. He stares for a moment, trying to reconcile the figure hunched over on the dock with the person he knows Peter to be. 

For all of Tony’s memories are worth, Peter has always been this annoying larger-than-life figure. But, emphasis on the annoying. From the moment they'd met, Tony had hated him, already pegged him to be some old-money, football playing degenerate like everyone else on his team. 

When he'd tried to befriend Tony two years back, he'd met the attempt with cool contempt. Because the kid was new and had clearly sniffed out the influence where he could smell it. He’d had Barnes and Rogers on either side and although Tony wasn’t at the top of the social pyramid, his familial connections had him in the upper echelon of the so-called food chain. He's known opportunists his entire life.

That’s what he thought it was, back then. 

He didn’t need to think about disdainfully slapping away Peter’s literal and metaphorical hand of friendship, it was obvious to him what value he was after and it had nothing to do with Tony. 

But, the assignment taught him in many ways that his impulses and his own assumptions were categorically erroneous in this instance. 

Because he didn’t have enough data to base his hypothesis on, then, just a petty first impression. How was he to know that the torn jeans and ratty hoodie weren’t a fashion statement. How was he to know that Peter was genuine, when his smile looked as practiced as everyone else's. He’s not proud to admit that it took a real peek into his life to know that Peter wasn’t who Tony thought he was.

Turns out he really was larger than life. Tall and strong. Handsome, even with his dorky glasses and signature scowl. Super smart and modest and what Tony had thought was pandering was really just Peter giving away love like it was for free. Everything Tony wasn’t.

But right now, at the edge of that pier, Peter looked small. Scattered. Like a short gust of wind could knock him over.

Tony didn’t like that much.

And maybe that’s why he does it.

Maybe that’s what convinces him, half-burned cigarette tucked between his pursed lips, to shed his jeans and sunglasses right there on the porch, despite the frigid air. It’s the impulse, and he hasn’t ever been real good in saying no to those.

It’s definitely the urgent impulse that convinces him to set off into a run, leaping over the stairs and sprinting for the dock. Perhaps that’s what convinces him to hurdle himself over Peter’s hunched figure and cannonballs directly into the lake, knees clutched to his chest. 

It’s worth it, to hear Peter shriek in surprise as the water splashes over him until he can’t hear anything.

And the look of outright indignation when Tony resurfaces?

Bliss.

“Asshole,” is all Peter says, wiping his phone free of water. He tugs his cap further over his eyes, and directs his attention back to his phone as if Tony had not just executed a perfect dive into a dirty, rotten lake.

That is not acceptable, Tony thinks. 

He swims for a bit, gliding on his back, and staring at the sky. The clouds are grey and swollen, lingering overhead and threatening a deluge of something unpleasant.

“You think it’ll snow?” Tony asks, moments later. 

Sullenly, Peter shrugs, attention focused on his phone.

Larger than life Peter may be, he’s still inexorable when he wants to be.

Not that he’s ever been particularly chatty with Tony even on his best days, but it’s hard to miss how he’s been growing steadily more quiet this entire weekend, giving clipped, one-word answers. And Tony’s pretty sure that the fidgety fingers and the restless legs have a lot less to do with him and more to do with whatever existential crisis a sixteen year old might have, or perhaps with his ailing aunt.

Tony tries not to take notice for all of about four seconds before he gives in. In the peak of the noon sun, Peter has abandoned his sweater, donned in only a graphic tee and jeans, slouched so low that his spine almost looks like a sagging crescent, the sleeves of his shirt riding up on his remarkably toned arms.

 _Oh, I do declare_ , Tony thinks amusedly, fanning himself in his mind. 

Anyway. 

Priorities.

“What’s up with you, hmm?” Tony presses, wading closer. “What's gotten stuck up that bubble-butt of yours?”

“Nothing,” says Peter, tapping away at his phone, not even acknowledging Tony’s backhanded compliment. “What are you so happy about?”

“Your misery.”

“I really hate you,” Peter mutters without feeling, putting his phone away to stare moodily out at the lake.

Well, that will just not do.

“C’mon now, chin up, frog-face. You look like you’re about two seconds away from needing to breathe into a paper bag.”

Tony’s probably not far off the mark. He saw the half empty bottle of Klonopin with Parker's name on it stashed in the bathroom cupboard. You learn something new every day with this guy. Not that pharmaceuticals were a personality trait.

But, well.

Moving on.

“Don’t call me that.”

“You really do have your panties in a twist, don’t you,” Tony says, mostly to himself. Peter doesn’t even bristle like a snooty cat like he usually does. Just stares forlornly to the distance like he was in some indie film. It’s weird. “You know, someone who pulled one off recently isn’t usually this tense.”

Finally, Peter’s attention is firmly on him.

“I’m not tense and I pulled one off just fine.”

“Oh, _did_ you,” Tony teases, enjoying how pink Peter’s complexion suddenly turns. “How saucy. Did you think of me and my pasty skin, hmm?” he prompts. “It was the sight of my perky breasts, wasn’t it, you little perv.”

“No,” Peter adjusts his cap, cherry-cheeked. “You’re weirdly bent on when and where I jerk it and _I’m_ the perv?”

“I’m not bent. I just think you’re uptight and need to relax. Ergo, penis-colada.” 

“I am very relaxed. Ergo, you are an idiot.”

“Oh, precious,” Tony flicks water up at him. “Come on, be honest.”

“What,” he says defensively. “If I’m uptight it’s because you deliberately wind me up.”

“In a sexy way?”

“In a ‘I’m going to disembowel you and feed you to Friday’ way.”

“We’ve talked about your sweet nothings,” he tuts. “Terrible. Zero out of ten. My dick just shrivelled in on itself to seek shelter. Look.”

He holds up a single pinky finger and wriggles it.

It has one of the possible intended effects when Peter laughs through his nose, the tight line of his shoulders easing. And this, this is what Tony has found in recent days that earns him a great deal of satisfaction - winding Peter up just the right amount when warranted, and getting him to uncoil when it’s not Tony that’s done the winding. 

“C’mon, stop being such a buzzkill,” Tony implores. “We’re not at school. Could you stop being chronically constipated for a minute and have some fun.”

Peter looks at him suspiciously. “And what happens when we go back to school?”

Well, he hasn’t considered that yet, and doesn’t really want to. That would make him uncomfortable.

Instead, he makes a show of scanning their surroundings and appearing contrite, peering up at him through his eyelashes. He watches as Peter’s defensiveness gives way to curiosity, the tautness in his arms melting as Tony swims closer, beckoning with one hand as if he had a secret to tell.

“Don’t tell anybody,” Tony whispers, hands sneaking up to grip at Peter’s wrists, “but here’s the plan. I think we should --”

“Tony, _no_ ,” Peter realizes a second too late, already pulling on his hold, voice raised with barely restrained laughter. “Do _not_ , stop, _stop_ \- don’t you fucking dare - ”

Then he pulls, Peter shrieks loudly before he hits the water.

“ _Tony_!“

\----

Peter emerges from the water furious, a scowl that could rival the mythical scorned, cheated out of their fate, water dripping from his eyelashes, his perfect hair a sodden mess over his face, snorting lake water inelegantly from his nose.

For his troubles, Tony gets an angry splash of gross lake water in his mouth and hands pressing down on his shoulders, pulling him under.

And Tony gets the uproar, because this lake is really not made for swimming. It’s dirty and more suited to kayaking than it is accidentally inhaling the water in any orifices, but Tony is nearly seventeen with no parental supervision, and if he wants to play around in scum and dubious bodies of water, that’s his decision, poor or otherwise.

He’s close enough to the lake floor that he can plant his feet on the rocks and thrust upward, thwarting Parker's half-hearted attempts to drown him, laughing at Peter’s put-off expression even as he fights to catch his breath.

“You are the fucking worst, I could kill you right now,” Peter says, low, with what Tony guesses is supposed to be a menacing expression as he wipes his glasses free of water with his abandoned sweater. It’s quite adorable. 

He spreads his arms wide and grins.

“Do your best, baby.”

\---- 

There’s a lot of things that Tony would never have thought he would say.

Like, for example, that peanut butter and cottage cheese on toast were a good combination. Or that The Black Parade was the modern incarnation of Bohemian Rhapsody. 

Or that Peter Parker looked strikingly handsome, wet and sputtering after being unwillingly pulled into a dirty body of water, and that having a water fight with him would constitute as a good time.

And it’s not that Tony hasn’t ever thought that he wasn’t attractive. Of course he was, with a body and a face like his, sprung to life as if it came carved from marble, it was undeniable to anyone with functional vision. But while Tony lumped him and his dumbfuck teammates and friends in one category, it never struck him just so.

“You didn’t answer my question about school,” Peter says during a truce, wading in the water, seemingly content with his new habitat.

“What, my dear, was the question?” Tony blinks, eyelashes laden with droplets, genuinely having forgotten. “Be precise.”

“What happens when we go back? Do we just... ignore each other like before?”

Tony places a hand on his own chest. “I never ignored you.”

“You were an asshole to me.”

“And you were such an angel to me,” he rolls his eyes. “What’s your point. You wanna hold hands in public or something?”

“No,” Peter flushes. “I don't know, just act like we don’t actively despise each other?”

“Don’t we? Are we _friends_ now?”

“No.”

“You crushin’ on me?”

“ _No_.”

“Then?”

“You don’t hate me,” Peter breathes, swimming closer. “And I don’t hate you. You know what, yes, actually. Let’s hang out. Come to the game next week. It’s against Aldrige.”

“ _Football_?” Tony snorts amusedly, locking his eyes with Peters. “You think the path to reconciliation is in me watching a game I don’t even like played by the future, festering dregs of our society? Think again, dollface.”

“I think you think too much,” Peter says before splashing him in the face with freezing lake water. Incensed, Tony splashes him back.

“And I think I have better things to do on a Thursday night.”

“Like what,” Peter swims closer until they’re nearly nose to nose.

“Becoming one with my bed, cutting my toenails, crying myself to sleep,” Tony ticks off his fingers. “Literally anything that isn’t sport. If I wanted to watch a bunch of repressed angry dudes jump all over each other and hump grass I could just watch porn.”

“So, I’ll see you there?” Peter grins in that cheeky-cherub way of his. 

“Are you even going to play?” Tony tries, his will faltering. 

Peter had taken the brace off his wrist over the weekend, but that didn’t mean he was done being benched.

“I’ll get cleared next week. Just don’t rub one out in the bleachers if the grass humping becomes too much for you. They frown upon that.”

“For the record,” Tony says flatly, “I dislike you very, very intensely. Especially right now.”

“Feeling’s mutual, bub.”

Neither of them move, and somehow they’ve managed to gravitate disconcertingly close to one another during their back-and-forth. The fire is back in Peter’s eyes, utterly magnetic and a gust of unexpected want barrels into his body. 

Tony wants so excruciatingly in that moment to bridge the gap, wants with his whole body, whether it’s to dunk him under the water or to pin him to the dock, kiss the cocky out of him. Wrap his arms around him and keep his lips and body warm from the freezing water. 

God, wouldn’t they be something. All push and pull. 

The want just keeps building like a score reaching crescendo until he can feel it like a suffocating pressure, right to his very fingertips, in his nails, and it just makes him want to reach out and do things he has no permission to do, even when they’re so close that he can feel Peter’s breath on his face, even though Peter’s eyes have gone dark and heated, so all that’s left to do is -

Peter’s outraged squawk when Tony splashes him again is terribly satisfying.

Not as satisfying as kissing him might be, he imagines.

But it will do.

\----

Tony has learned a lot about Peter since the time they started working on their assignment, but nothing near the information he’s managed to accrue over the course of this weekend. How his nose scrunches when he sneezes, that he’s allergic to nickel, that he’s the worst type of human being: read, _a morning person._

Peter fucking Parker. Really? 

This guy wears punny shirts and hums the Star Wars theme as he’s studying, Tony’s been on the unfortunate receiving end of it so he really, truly has to ask himself. _This dweeb?_

 _Yeah_ , his heart beats in response. This fucking dweeb. What are ya gonna do about it?

If he had a Magic-8 Ball to shake it would likely land on some ambiguous and unhelpful advice.

_Who the fuck knows?_

\----

They’re saved the disgrace of having to walk back dripping wet and half frozen into the house - while they have been dilly-dallying the day away in a cold, dirty lake, the adults have set up a bonfire between the porch and the dock, largely without their notice.

By dusk Tony is starving and accepts his pyramid-like stack of food graciously as he settles in a rickety wicker chair by the fire, diving into his helping of steak, corn on the cob and potato salad. Jarvis heartily offers a boat of mint-flavored gravy which Tony declines because he _hates_ mint in anything that isn’t gum and even then cinnamon is clearly the superior alternative.

Once dinner is finished the marshmallows and crackers are distributed - and Tony is shit, he means _shit_ , okay, at getting the marshmallows right, too bored to keep an eye on it, but Parker does it right nearly every time. He passes his best around the fire and keeps the few horribly charred ones to himself and that used to be something that Tony would want to sneer at him for.

Goody-two-shoes.

Now, it just makes Tony want to watch him. 

Beside him, Peter shivers as the warmth of the flame starts to burn some of the chill from his skin, their clothes slowly starting to dry. It makes him think back to how May had tutted fondly at their wet appearances after they had emerged from the lake, flocking to the fire like overgrown human moths, running back into the house and emerging soon after with towels for them both, tugging Tony’s around his shoulders playfully like a scarf. 

She’d been so… patient. And warm. The reprimand never came, not from anyone, despite Tony's expectations.

Now, he stares at the bonfire, idly listening to the faint music and yelling from a party at the other side of the lake, finally allowing himself to relax. 

You can never be surprised by someone's actions in the heat of the moment if you’ve already tested their limits beforehand. That’s what people were. Full of variables, yes, but predictable once you knew how they responded to particular stimuli. It wasn’t a perfect methodology by any means, but at the very least Tony could count on knowing what might earn him a fist to the face with most people. Or a flinch.

It’s the first proper Thanksgiving he’s had since he stayed with the Potts two years ago. Rhodey and his parents always go to Minnesota each year to see family and last year Tony’s mom came up from California, and, well, wasn’t that was a fucking disaster.

So this? This is one of the nicest nights he’s had in a very long time. 

Nobody expects him to be proper, to sit upright, to only be seen or heard if he was being useful. He wasn’t being useful. He was getting the seat wet underneath him and he planned on convincing Peggy to let him have a beer and he’s sure his unexpected presence was akin to a meteor collision on this otherwise quaint family weekend. But no one looked at him like he should be punished, or like he was an outsider. It was like he was supposed to be there all along.

His own mom, as much as he adores her, wouldn’t be caught dead in this scene. Still, Tony might call her later and tell her about it.

They stay out there for a while, Jarvis’ boom-box playing Cold Chisel on some local radio station, but it's just slightly not tuned right and the noise is a bit pixelated. It’s a long time before he draws his eyes from the fire. The adults are laughing about something and Peter is on his phone again, though his features and posture are much more relaxed than earlier in the day.

“Your hair is curly,” Tony observes, they’re both dry now. “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

Peter’s hand flies to his hair, running his fingers through it, chin dipped in what Tony can construe as a self-conscious habit, his low laugh short and void of genuine amusement.

“Hah, yeah,” he tugs a lock in front of his brow, pulling it straight before releasing it. “You can see why I don’t walk around like this all the time.”

“No, I don’t,” Tony says, not understanding.

Peter looks at him oddly.

“I should head to bed,” he says eventually. “We have to leave early in the morning.”

Tony doesn’t want to be out here alone and he doesn’t want this weekend to end so he nods, stands and follows him inside.

It’s good timing then. It doesn’t snow, but the sky does finally split open and it rains.

\----

At first observation it seems everyone has already gone to bed. Save for the TV playing Jeopardy the house is quiet, dark and still. However both stop dead in the living room, pausing when Jarvis, asleep on the sofa, snores loudly. Friday is curled on his chest, looking very pleased with herself as his chest rises and falls as he breathes.

They stare, transfixed, as he mumbles answers to the game show in his sleep.

“Right. Well, I can just,” Tony gestures to the floor after a moment, as it’s his turn for the already appropriated sofa, “the carpet is fine.”

It won’t be a comfortable night, but it can’t be any worse than the time he camped out in the cramped backseat of his car after a fight with his father.

“We can share,” Peter rolls his eyes, already heading to the room. “The bed’s pretty big, so. As long as you keep your hands to yourself.”

Tony follows with an air of casual disinterest and aims for puerile with his next words, just for the small thrill of winding Peter up. 

“I’m going to tell everyone at school you propositioned me to get into your bed.”

“Shut the fuck up or sleep on the floor,” is all Peter says before he locks himself in the bathroom. Tony grins to himself.

Success.

They settle very awkwardly on either side of the bed after they’ve both had the opportunity to piss and brush their teeth, looking around each other but not really meeting eyes, flinching any time their skin nearly touches. Yes, the bed is fairly big if you’re a teenage kid and the sole occupant, but, as it were, the bed looked impossibly small now, as if it had shrunken overnight

Well, no time like the present is there. Tony’s the first to move, pulling back the sheets and climbing in. Peter’s quick to follow suit, lowering himself gingerly, shuffling awkwardly until they’re both settled on their sides, facing away from each other.

“You better keep to your side. I swear to god,” Peter says in the darkness, “if your _butt_ or any other part of you touches me...”

“And sully my reputation as a perfect gentleman? Please.” Tony fakes a yawn. “We both know you’re the sexual deviant here.”

“You’re a moron.”

Tony smiles in the darkness.

\----

It’s been twenty minutes of rigid backs, carefully measured breathing and staring at walls, glaring evidence that neither of them are asleep or even close to it.

“Can you hear that noise?” Peter whispers. “That clicking noise?” He imitates whatever his freakishly good hearing is picking up, sounding like a vaguely predatory, foot-high dinosaur, but Tony knows what he must be referring to, even though his own hearing doesn’t pick it up - or is so used to it by now it doesn’t even register.

Tony’s eyes widen as he thinks of his bot, stashed in his duffle in the closet, the zip slightly open so he can ‘breathe’. That's a secret he's not willing to share with Parker just yet. Just in case.

“Nope,” he says. “Don’t hear anything.”

\----

An hour later, both still very much in the same place they were before with added sighs of annoyance and the occasional cough. Sleep isn’t coming any time soon. Sleep and Tony have had regular disagreements for as long as he’s known it.

“You wanna watch Gordon Ramsay yell at people?” Tony says, turning onto his back.

“Okay.”

After fishing out his laptop, Tony has to very carefully open an entirely new window to stream an episode of Kitchen Nightmares, lest Peter see the thousand and one tabs Tony has open on his main window. Some of them benign, like google results of _what does fremdschämen mean_ , others a little more embarrassing like the numerous PornHub tabs and the YouTube playlists of questionable reality TV shows.

Best to avoid that situation completely.

\----

“ _It’s fuckin’ raw_ ,” Tony does his best impression of the accent an indeterminate time later, the laptop stowed away, the room pitch-black save for the strip of light under the door and warm, sleep finally tugging him down to its dark depths.

“ _I’m shutting it down_ ,” Peter imitates with vigour, laughing softly to himself.

Tony closes his eyes and allows the sandman to do his work.

\----

When he wakes he notices three things.

One, is the sound of the kettle boiling, a screech of noise as it hits crescendo. The second is that it’s very cold, the heat of the fireplace not quite sufficient to reach the guest room, the snappy, waspish wind against the window a sign of the conditions outside.

The third is the warm huff of Peter’s breath on Tony’s face. 

And that leads to the observation that they’ve drifted closer to each other through the night, facing one another, faces inches apart. This close, like earlier in the lake, Tony can count Peter’s eyelashes, the stipple of pale freckles upon his nose. His face is lax with sleep and his lips are parted slightly. He’s snoring fairly quietly.

Also, he fell asleep wearing his glasses.

It definitely is not endearing.

The bedside alarm clock says it’s only just past five, which would explain the tired ache around his eyes, and why Peter is dead to the world, motion behind his closed eyelids as if he was in a dream. For some reason, the only thought that accompanies the sudden swell of emotion in his chest is, _Toto, I've a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore_.

There’s a warm looking flush dusted over Peter’s cheeks, and of course there is, Tony thinks, he’s gone and stolen all the blankets through the night, leaving Tony little more than a pitiful square to cover his torso. That’s why he’s shivering.

 _Shit-head_ , Tony thinks, sliding closer under the comforter, hoping to share some of Peter’s heat, desperate to go back to sleep.

Except sleep doesn’t come, it never does. 

Not when Peter unconsciously shifts closer, sighing softly as his bare legs brush Tony’s, not when he gravitates like a planet in orbit, close enough that they’re sharing a pillow, lips smacking drunkenly on their combined body heat.

Not when Peter wakes some moments later, eyes opening confusedly before dimming with fondness, like maybe that was what more or less than what he had expected. The thing that annoys Tony is that he doesn’t know which - they’re so close their breath mingles, and their toes and knees brush under the blankets and it’s more intimate than friendly - so which is it, he wonders; more, or less?

“Hey,” Peter says, shifting closer until Tony can feel the soft brush of Peter’s hair against his forehead. “Morning.”

Tony’s betting on more. Peter is braver than Tony is - and this - this is.

His stomach drops, courage slipping from his grasp.

“Do you know what really annoys me about you?” Tony whispers in lieu of returning his greeting, his voice shaky and easily blamed on the lack of sleep. “What really annoys the shit out of me?”

“What,” Peter queries softly, eyes still closed.

“This,” Tony extends a finger to flatten the hairs of Peter’s ridiculous wayward eyebrow, stupidly captivated by the way that Peter leans into the touch ever so subtly, like a cat being pet.

He feels the huff of laughter over his lips before he hears it.

“My eyebrow?”

“Yes,” Tony mumbles, stroking over the hairs again to ensure they remain flat, like a normal eyebrow should be. “Why is it always like that.”

“Not sure,” his bed companion hums, careless and minute, slurred with sleep enough that Tony might not have caught if he weren’t already studying the lines of his face. “Maybe it just likes to annoy you.”

“It’s very successful in annoying me. As is every other part of you. You’re infuriating.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

To steel himself he takes a deep breath, drawing on his remaining reserves of courage as he breathes out, encouraged ever so slightly by the way Peter hasn’t yet flinched away. Tony allows his finger to trail from Peter’s eyebrow down the slope of his nose, his skin sleep-warm and smooth. Then his finger moves to trace the curve of Peter’s cheekbone, and that’s when Peter’s eyes open. 

His stare errs on soft, curious and Tony doesn’t know why he’s doing it, except that the need to touch is too great, feels drawn to him, like this is the perfect state of being, intertwined and silent. And that the way Peter shifts closer to him until their foreheads touch means maybe he feels that way too. 

Curiously, always pushing boundaries, his finger trails from his cheek, to gently stroke his philtrum, and then down to the soft bow of his upper lip.

“This weird?” he asks softly.

“A bit.”

Ever so gently, he traces the curve of his lips, sighing when Peter’s hands come to clutch his shirt, not flinching, not looking away.

“Do you like it?”

Peter just nods, shifting even closer until the tips of their noses touch.

“Can I -” he asks, cutting himself off, letting go of Tony’s shirt to raise one of his hands until one of his fingers touch the apex of his shoulder, stroking down over his arms, the bump of his elbow and down the sharp slope of his forearm, resting at the underside of Tony’s wrist where his pulse beats fast and fierce. 

They remain like that, the moment sweet and gentle in a way the two of them rarely were. Courage builds at the same time that his fear escalates, like standing at the precipice, sick with nerves but elated at the prospect of taking the leap.

He wants to lean in so badly and capture those lips with his own. Wants to climb over Peter’s body and press him down. To bite that full lower lip, to cradle his hips with his thighs and pin him down, make him gasp, beautiful and breathtaking.

“Tony,” Peter whispers, pressing his lips against his thumb. He thinks he will move it and lean in and replace it with his own lips.

But before he can there is a loud knock at the closed door. 

They still, lips the barest width apart.

It’s May.

“Pete?” She raises her worried voice through the wood. “Time to wake up, kiddo. We gotta go soon.”

“Okay,” Peter calls back, still staring at Tony. After the footsteps retreat from he inhales deeply before letting the breath go and taking his hand away from Tony’s.

Neither of them move for a moment, Tony’s thumb still resting on Peter's plump lower lip, their gazes heated and locked, but then, Peter’s hand slowly slides up from his wrist, feather-light, to rest over Tony’s hand, clasping around it. At this moment, their only point of contact were their touching foreheads, their hands and Tony’s finger on Peter's lips, but his whole body felt as if it were floating, buoyant, like being grounded and suspended in the air at the same time.

Underneath Tony’s thumb, the lips stretch into a resigned smile.

“I gotta go.”

For a moment he doesn’t let go and wishes that the universe would go his way, just for once, wishes that time would do him this one favour and stretch these seconds interminably, hit the breaks, play itself out like the movies where everything pauses.

If it did, he would shift, slide his nose against Peter’s and wait for him to give Tony a sign, or for Peter to bridge the distance. But time doesn’t work that way and the universe rarely indulges him such hedonistic impulses.

As it was, in real life, his finger drifts to stroke the sharp line of Peter’s jaw until it reaches his chin then, down his throat, just for a second he lets his touch linger, not knowing when or if he will get this chance again. 

“Tony,” Peter whispers, soft. 

Conceding the moment to the whims of time, Tony pulls away then, shoving down the floaty feelings. A mocking grimace crosses his face as he decides to go for push, instead of pull.

“If you lift up that blanket and hotbox me I’m going to break your nose.”

And just like that, the moment broke.

Peter snorts before sitting up, swinging his legs off the bed. “Your dirty talk needs work,” he mocks.

“You shouldn’t fart the bed, honey,” he leans up, resting on his elbow. “How’s that?”

As has become the impulse of the day Tony sneaks his free hand from under the comforter and pinches Peter’s side where he knows he’s sensitive. As predicted, Peter squirms and bats away at Tony’s offending hand and takes grip of his wrist, laughing breathily.

“I’m going to tell everyone at school to call you Farty Parker.”

Peter squeezes his wrist, thumb stroking the underside, his expression, Tony might dare say, indulgent.

“No, you’re not. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

No, he wouldn’t.

Well, maybe he’ll tell Rhodey. Then he’ll look at Peter with judgement and Peter will know what Tony told him and it will be hilarious. 

Tony watches while he gets to his feet and reaches his arms over his head, back cracking with the effort. Neither of them say a thing when makes no effort to hide the way he stares appreciatively at the sliver of skin that gets exposed when his shirt rides up before he saunters to the bathroom.

He stays in the bed and listens to the sound of the shower running, the creak of the old plumbing, replaying the last few minutes in his mind. Tony was going to kiss Peter.

And Peter was going to let him.

Tony’s lips stretch to capacity.

“What are you smiling about, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, when he returns. Something soft hits Tony in the face.

“Nothing, Mr. Parker,” he says, clutching what appears to be a forest-green hoodie, one he knows he’s seen Peter wear before, and often. It’s the same one Tony pulled the strings on to annoy Peter those weeks ago. “What’s this?”

“Collateral,” Peter replies, towelling dressed in a white shirt and jeans he slings a duffel over his shoulder, looking like James Dean, eyes roving Tony up and down. “Until I give back your jacket.”

Tony manfully waits until Peter leaves the room to bring it to his nose and breathe in.

Fuck.

\----

“You come over whenever you want, sweetie,” May hugs Tony at the open front door, kissing his cheek again. “You’re welcome at any time, remember, I mean it.”

“Thanks,” he hugs her back, warmth blooming in his chest, giving her a grateful smile when she releases him.

Peter walks back slowly towards the car, waving a hand and visibly softening when he gets a wave in return. “See you tomorrow,” Peter calls back, adjusting his cap and biting his bottom lip, managing to make it sound like a promise. Cute tells, Tony thinks, those are the variables he can work with.

“So,” Jarvis says once they’ve driven off, a knowing look on his face, “that the guy?”

“Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m not smug, Anthony, I’m English.”

Tony sighs. He can’t really argue with that, can he.

What a weekend, he thinks, throwing an arm around Peggy and Jarvis, steering them to the kitchen for coffee. What a world.

For once, he can’t wait until tomorrow.


	9. Nine

There is a poster on the wall.

Outside of the small doctors office a child wails like a siren, long and loud. A stressed-sounding mother is heard just trying to calm them to no avail. While his doctor types noisily at his computer Peter pretends to be fascinated by the poster to avoid commenting.

It’s a colourful illustration of the inner ear, dotted with helpful little annotations that indicate which bit is which.

Ned’s always had inner ear problems, Peter remembers. Something to do with his Eustachian tube and how it sucks for him to swim under water and to go on planes. 

Peter has never been on a plane. 

Ears are weird.

Next to the ear diagram is an even larger poster, preaching the importance of safe-sex and noting in embarrassing dot-points the consequences of failing to heed its advice.

_Gonorrhoea! Herpes! Chlamydia!_

Oh my.

It reminds Peter of sex-ed in middle school and the time he got paired up with his crush, Liz, on an assignment. The assignment was on syphilis. They made a slideshow. Liz was unfazed when they presented the ghastly images to their giggling peers, disease-ridden penises twirling gaily through the projector onto the whiteboard. Peter was a stammering wreck.

They still got an A plus on that assignment though, so.

He continues to observe the other oddments around the cramped office to busy himself as Dr Chan continues to type up his clinical notes. Colourful, Picasso-esque children's drawings adorn the far wall and dated medical textbooks stack the thin bookshelf in the corner.

He’s reading the credentials on one of the framed graduate certificates that line the off-white walls when Dr Chan finally swivels his seat to Peter, extending his hand to pass over Peter’s results.

“Clean bill of health, kid,” the doctor hands him his flimsy x-ray film, tucked in a crisp white envelope. “You’re as good as new.”

Peter accepts the envelope, smiling, doing his best to conceal the small measure of resentment kicking up dust in his belly, seeing as he hadn’t broken or fractured his wrist to begin with and has no idea if radiology services are even covered under their insurance.

Maybe he should ask.

Not to say that he hadn’t tried before he was ushered into a flimsy gown and had his forearm pressed against a machine. But the technician had just shrugged and told him to ask the front desk, as he was performing the scan.

“Thank you,” he says instead.

And then comes the next part.

“And how’s it going with your prescription?”

“Fine,” he cuts in, not needing to have this conversation again. “It’s going fine.”

The doctor clicks away at his computer, squinting at the screen as he skims through Peter’s history. “The dosage is still okay?”

“Perfect,” he confirms.

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Well, he’s not sure. Like, at all. Not sure that he even needs to be to them anymore, if he’s honest.

He doesn’t know if he’s more level-headed because of the meds or if it’s because he’s become all better over the years. Or if he’s just grown up and his hormones have stop permanently placing him on High Fucking Alert. He can’t remember. Maybe this is how he always was before.

On edge. Sensitive.

Maybe this was as good as he was going to get.

Anyway.

“I’m sure. Can I get a certificate, please,” he smiles politely. “I need to be cleared for school sports.”

“Sure thing,” his doctor shrugs, turning to his computer to type up the requested documentation. He has to push his ergonomic chair back a fraction to accommodate for his portly figure, bloated belly stretching the starchy fabric of his lavender dress shirt. “You still playing -- what was it -- badminton?”

Ugh, middle school.

Not only had his sexuality been the target of many a taunt during those years, but it had been significantly compounded by the amount of times he took an errant shuttlecock to the face. Gym class was brimming with pimply, squeaky-voiced assholes happy to pelt them in his general direction, followed by yells of _eat cock, Parker!_

“Football, now,” he corrects, eyes drifting to the anatomy posters again, the model of the knee joint on his side-desk.

“Oh, football! My son plays football,” the doctor relays with fervent enthusiasm. “Broke his front tooth in training the other day. Those dental bills! Am I right?”

Peter’s eyes widen, praying for this appointment to end. Is he supposed to mention he hasn’t been to the dentist since Ben’s insurance lapsed?

And then he worries that maybe he was hinting that Peter should go see a dentist. Maybe his breath stinks.

“Right. Um, the certificate?”

He says this, discreetly bending his chin down to smell his own breath.

“Of course,” the doctor prints it off, flourishing the paperwork with a pen provided to him by reps from Seroquel. Black ink, cheap ballpoint. Dr Chan has to shake the pen twice to complete his signature. “Here you go.”

Peter folds the paper into squares and shoves it into his pocket, thanking his doctor for his time and hurrying out before there are further questions.

The receptionist smiles at him as he fills in the paperwork, results tucked between his arm and his side.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he finally leaves the building.

\---

It’s nine-ish by the time he gets onto the subway, headed for school.

It’s still relatively crowded with mostly tired-looking corporate folk, some donned in ill-fitted, off-the-rack suits, too baggy at the waist; others in sleek, bespoke attire. Money talks in New York, Peter doesn’t have a fucking clue how to, what is it -- _tie a tie? knot a tie?_ Is it like shoelaces?

He isn’t an expert on sartorial choices but he knows enough to avert his eyes from the fat cats and when to surreptitiously share a commisatory glance with the harried lackeys.

He reserves some of his sympathy for the people who are clearly not locals, covered in trench coats or wool coats, or barely-there polyester scarves in attempts to counter the chill of early winter in New York. Their accents, of course, are the biggest tell. A southern twang, a Californian drawl, or the whip-fast Pittsburghese.

He clutches a pole beside a couple of tourists who are shedding their wool gloves in the heat of the crowd, talking excitedly amongst themselves in what sounds like Russian to his untrained ear, sporting _I Heart NY_ shirts, chunky DSLR’s hanging by straps around their necks.

He lets their voices wash over him as he stares out the windows, etched with graffiti, clouding with the heat inside the train.

The noise is a lot. But it’s home. Familiar. Right now it feels like a pulse, sounds like a heartbeat.

Times like these he really loves this city.

\----

By the time he gets to school and hands his absentee slip into administration at the front office he’s, fortuitously, just in time for his Bio class to start. He slips into the lab with seconds to spare, thankful that his usual spot beside MJ is vacant as usual.

She gives him the stink-eye as he sits, dropping his bag on the desk, but that’s usual fare for his friend. Particularly on a Monday (which she hates), and undoubtedly made worse by her horror-holiday long weekend.

“What are you looking at,” she sneers when Peter smiles at her.

“Nothing,” he feels his lips tug further upwards, happy to bask in some semblance of normality. “You look very nice today, by the way. I like your jacket. Is it new?”

“I’m not letting you borrow lunch money,” she says immediately.

“I wasn’t going to ask!”

“Then stop looking at me like that. It’s creeping me out.”

He can’t help it. He’s been meaning to ask since yesterday.

Since, well.

“Hey, you remember the one time we kissed last year?” Peter whispers several minutes later, fervently taking notes as their teacher scribbles on the board, some sort of diagram that he tries to replicate, not that it makes much sense to him, but with his luck will come up in a test.

MJ grimaces, lips twisting awry like an infant that had just been fed something sour. “I’ve worked really hard to repress that memory.”

“Why? Was I that bad at it?”

“At what?”

Peter casts a suspicious gaze at either side of him before leaning in, desk digging into his stomach. “At _kissing_ , butthead.”

“Why are you asking?” Her nose scrunches up.

He says honestly, “I need a review.”

“A review,” she replies, as flat and hard as concrete. “I’m not answering that.”

“Because I was bad?”

“You know I wouldn’t try and spare your feelings, Parker.”

Peter continues to send her meaningful looks until they move onto the lab component of their class. She dutifully ignores him, much to his chagrin. Maybe it was an unkindness to ask her, but it’s not like he had a huge pool of people with this particular sort of experience.

MJ fires up the bunsen burner, the tall yellow flame highlighting her look of begrudging despair, the unhappy downturn of her lips.

“You were fine,” she says finally, slapping her notebook onto the table. “For a dude.”

Fine. For a dude.

“What does that _mean_ though?”

“Oh my god,” she looks around the room. “You were nervous and your lips were like, super dry - and I like _girls_ and you know that - but, you were fine, okay. Not the worst kiss I’ve ever had. Jesus, why are you making me relive this?”

“No reason,” he attempts to school the grin overtaking his lips.

He fails.

MJ throws a pen at his face, informing him that he is the biggest creep to ever creep.  
  
“Sorry, sorry. You’re a pal.”

“Don’t you ever forget.”

\----

The remainder of bio goes without any threats to his person or further intrusive questions about anyone's lip-locking prowess. By the time it’s ended and nothing has been set on fire, he can hardly believe he’s already packed so much into half a day.

MJ follows him to his locker, finally awake enough to complain about her weekend, her cousin Drew, and the frequent trips he would make to the chemist for hemorrhoid cream.

“How many tubes did he need?” Peter asks curiously.

“Four,” she says. “Four. He was there for _three_ days, I mean what the fuck?”

Peter laughs as he enters in his combination, his usually unflappable friend looking so personally offended. He’d met Drew once. Nice dude, if not a bit strange. Might keep a wide berth now, he thinks, renewing his daily struggle to open his locker.

As usual, it’s not inclined to cooperate with him. 

“Give me a break,” Peter groans, slapping the metal in an effort to jimmy open his stupid, cursed locker. “Why can’t you be normal, just for once?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out since I met you,” someone says from behind him.

A fist darts out, pounding vigorously on his locker twice. It springs open.

Startled, Peter whirls around to be met with Tony’s amused face, hands on his hips. A satisfied smirk slithers like a lazy snake up his face, the bruising on his neck a sickly shade of yellow.

“Likewise, dickhead,” is what he says instead, turning back to pick some books out of his locker and place them into his backpack.

Any worry that he wouldn’t know how to act around him after yesterday instantly evaporates, replaced by annoyance. That, and a swooping sensation in his stomach, but mostly annoyance. It’s been twenty four hours and Peter’s lizard brain already forgot how cocky Tony is.

“You skip class this morning or somethin’?”

At once, he’s hit with the sense memory of what Tonys fingers - warm, dry, sure - felt like against his lips. He wants to grip his hands in the collar of Tony’s shirt and drag him closer. That asshole.

Peter rolls his eyes, closing his locker again to lean his back against it, heart pounding when Tony leans closer.

“Why,” he queries, tilting his head. “You miss me or somethin’?”

“Negative. I had a great morning not having to see you strut the hallways like King Shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony sweeps a hand in a dramatic arc like a film director outlying his vision. “The air was clear, the sun was out. Then, suddenly, the skies darkened and I felt as if a Dementor had just passed through me. Then I realized that it was just you arriving at school.”

“Sounds like a terrible experience,” Peter says sympathetically.

“The worst.”

“You should visit the school counsellor for that. Maybe she can fix everything else that is wrong with you while you’re there.”

They smile at each other until Tony’s eyes grow more serious. “So?” he says. “You playing hooky?”

“Getting medically cleared to engage in academic grass-humping,” he says very seriously, holding up his wrist and flexing it to prove his unhindered dexterity.

“Ah, I see,” Tony says, leaning a little closer, splaying his hand on Peter’s locker, caging him in. “Football. So I guess that means…”

“Thursday?”

Tony reaches out to grab his wrist, squeezing it, flexing it this way and that. “That hurt?”

“Nope,” he shakes his head, skin tingling at the point where their skin meets.

“Damn.”

Peter blinks, suddenly a little unsure. “I mean, you don’t have to --”

“No, no. Thursday it is,” he gets a dark-eyed, mirthful stare at this. “Get that look off your face, Parker, I ain't gonna wear your fucking number or anything.”

Peter places his hand on his chest, offended. “As if I’d embarrass myself by having you publicly associate with me. It’s an away game, by the way. Should have mentioned.”

“Oh _wonderful_ , so I have to drive all the way out to some shit-hole in the boondocks,” Tony’s voice drips with false sincerity.

“It’s in the boroughs you fucking drama queen,” he shoves at him lightly, “there are no boondocks.”

Tony ignores him. “What colors are Aldridge, again? I’m going to heckle our team and cheer on the opposition. I have to prepare an outfit to suit.”

“You are such a jackass,” Peter says fondly, pursing his lips to minimise his smile. “I hate you.”

“Likewise, sweetheart,” Tony bites his lip to suppress a smile, thumb brushing the underside of Peter’s wrist.

 _Oh_ , his heart skips a beat.

Against his better judgement, his tongue swipes out to wet his lips. He knows Tony is just being facetious, a mockery of affection - because that’s not who they are, it’s not what they _do_ \- but his stupid pulse races all the same at the endearment.

“Do you guys just forget that other people are around you?”

MJ crosses her arms over his chest and Peter jumps, actually having forgotten she was there.

Tony drops his arm like he’s been burned. “Jones,” he acknowledges, a tad awkwardly, stepping back and folding his arms over his chest.

“Shit-head,” she greets cooly.

At this, Tony’s face brightens as if he’d been provided a grand compliment. “So polite, Jones. Shouldn’t you be out petitioning for the cafeteria to serve an ultra-recyclo vegetarian menu, or to ban any food that casts a shadow?”

“You’re getting your out-dated pop culture references mixed up,” MJ rolls her eyes. She punches Peter in the shoulder again. “I’m out. See you after school, dickface.”

“Bye!” Tony calls after her, waving enthusiastically. “Nice chat.”

“Eat shit, Stark,” she offers him a baleful, dead-eyed stare before she strolls away towards her next class, blending in seamlessly with the lackadaisical gait of the crowded student body. 

She’s going to give Peter so much shit for this whole morning, he just knows it.

“Why are all your friends so violent, huh,” Tony leans in to whisper loudly, his breath tickling the sensitive skin of Peter’s ear.

It’s their shared free period so Peter’s in no hurry to be anywhere. However, he’s too wary of his propensity for breaking things, good things, so he pushes Tony away slightly, hands against his chest and says, in a hope to cushion the blow, “That’s how they know they like you.”

“You missed Econ,” Tony says by way of reply, leaning back out of his personal space. “Breaking news: Miss Ahn is sick, she probably won't be in all week.”

“Is Mr Gilbert our sub again?”

Tony shudders with his whole body.

“Yes.”

“I mean I know he normally teaches sex-ed and he’s -” Peter mocks a gag, tongue lolling out exaggeratedly, because the guy has seriously strange vibes and is just about the worst teacher he’s ever had, “ - but that means we have more time for our speech, right?”

“Why do you look so happy about that? We've already finished it.”

He stands up straight, grinning. “You have your laptop, right? Oh, oh! Let’s make _slides_ ,” he claps his hands together. “Yes, I have so many ideas. Library. Let’s go.”

“You’re a fucking nutcase,” Tony says, but follows him to the library anyway.

\----

The road to the library is long and varied. It reminds Peter why he loathes Tony.

Sometimes. Just a little.

Tony has to stop by the bathroom to piss, to stop by his locker to get his laptop, to have a smoke by the far building. Undoubtedly just to wind Peter up just a little, proven when Tony insists on a second cigarette, mischief writ openly across his face. Peter wants to punch him just a little bit.

Only a smidge. But he refrains.

The urge subsides by the time they get into the library and Tony graciously allows Peter to commandeer his laptop.

Pulling a seat, Tony settles in close beside him to watch Peter work, humming his approval or disapproval. A couple of times he smacks Peters’ hands away from the keyboard to write his own input or show him the file path to the photos he took of the apartment.

God, Peter thinks, adding some dumb zoom-y, spinny effects to the photos, the apartment tour seemed like an entire lifetime ago.

There was so much distrust and animosity between them then, only a few short weeks ago. It’s funny how much the thought of Tony touching him, even the guise of false friendliness, had made his skin crawl.

And now, the hand that settles low on Peter’s back to steady him while Tony leans over to demonstrate which effect they should use, is inexplicably, now a comfort to him.

The heat of his skin seeps through Peter’s shirt and he leans back into the warmth, feeling as if he were a cat curling up in the sun, the scent of nicotine wafting under his nose now a reassurance instead of an unpleasant turn-off.

So strange that he’d rather attack Tony’s mouth with his own these days instead of his fist. Maybe Miss Ahn had really been onto something. He decides then that she can climb back up the ranks to favourite teacher position, feeling magnanimous.

“Should we divide the slides so there’s equal speaking time or are you happy to go by category?”

“I thought we should wing it.”

Peter turns his head to the side to provide Tony with a stare, utterly perturbed by his suggestion.

“We have an extra week of preparation time and you want to _wing it_?”

Tony blinks coquettishly.

“We got this in the bag. We don’t even need to present. You could go up there, do a handstand, recite the pledge of allegiance and we’d get top grades. The work is solid.”

“But, slides,” Peter tries, even when Tony pulls his chair close until their sides are pressed together. “Mixed media. Everyone loves a good powerpoint presentation.”

“No one likes them,” Tony disagrees, chin digging into Peter's shoulder. “How about you do the talking and I do the handstand, hmm?”

Peter inches in a little closer until their noses brush, utterly magnetised by the mischief in Tony’s eyes and wondering how he should really feel about that. His hair looks unwashed, his fingernails are visibly dirty and there is a crusty toothpaste stain on his shirt.

At least, Peter hopes it’s toothpaste. And even then, he finds himself erring towards helplessly, infuriatingly charmed and hating himself a little for it. There must be something wrong with him.

“That doesn’t sound like a fair distribution of work.”

“Do you really want to be talking about schoolwork?” Tony says, his hand moving up to trace Peter’s spine through his shirt until it rests at the nape of his neck. “Or do you maybe want to do something else?”

“Like what?”

Peter is sure that the other boy is going to suggest something a little less innocent than slides, but he’s not going to be the one that says it.

“Coy does not suit you, freckle-face,” Tony moves closer until their foreheads touch.

Peter opens his mouth to refute this, because if Tony didn’t like coy he wouldn’t be smiling at Peter like that, like he doesn’t smile at anyone else. Peter thinks he likes coy very much.

As he goes to mention this he’s cut off by a breathy moan coming from somewhere behind them.

Albeit muffled and low, it’s unmistakably a fervent exhalation of pleasure that has Tony’s eyes widening comically and Peter stilling on the spot.

“That,” Tony says. “Yeah.”

Both of them freeze as they hear the low groan again, indisputably coming from somewhere in the stacks.

“Oh, _oh_ ,” moans a distinctly feminine voice.

“Um,” says Peter, forgetting how to breathe for a second.

Tony does not seem to suffer from the same problem.

Before he can protest, Tony swiftly pulls Peter to his feet by his arm and leads him away from the desk.

“Hey, what -”

He holds a finger to his mischievous mouth to shush Peter, all of his earlier devilry returning in full force. Peter’s harrumphs anyway, not happy at being led away from his slides by what are probably some freshmans engaging in inexperienced, sloppy kissing.

That and they could be engaging in their own sloppy kissing right now. Or, at least, he thinks that was where it was leading. 

Tony’s hand slides from his elbow to his hand as they crouch amongst the dusty old bookshelves, inching closer to the sound of lips smacking and pleased hums like a pair of spies approaching a mark.

“Tony, we shouldn’t - “

Tony squeezes his hand, tugging it.

“Shh,” he laughs, “come on.”

Crouched low amongst the bookshelves, they peer between the books to get a good look.

To Peter’s utter dismay it seems that two people are hooking up right amongst his favorite beanbags. The _sacrilege_ of his comfort space, he internally fumes, craning his head around an obsolete nineties-edition encyclopedia to get a better look on the rowdy couple.

Upon spotting them, his mouth sours.

Natasha is seated upon Bucky's lap, their mouths joined in a deep kiss, their bodies grinding together. After the initial recoil, Peter sneaks another glance, just in time to spot Bucky’s hand visibly sneaking down Natasha’s pants, stroking gently beneath her fly.

 _Ew_ , he thinks, that's his _friends_.

Shuddering he attempts to pull Tony away from what is unquestionably a deeply private moment, hindered only when Tony locks his arms, unwilling to be moved.

“C’mon,” Peter whisper-hisses, tugging at Tony’s wrists. “Let’s go.”

Tony resists Peter’s pull, head tilted to get a better view of the scene

“Oh, no thanks. I’m okay to watch.”

Peter huffs, pulling until he stands and leads him back to their table. They stand there for a moment, saying nothing. Then, their eyes meet and immediately burst into simultaneous, honest-to-god giggles.

“Oh my god,” Peter snorts, slapping a hand over his mouth. It’s clear they can’t stay here with this sort of distraction, “Oh my god,” he repeats. “That was - can we -- “

Tony takes him by the hand, picking up the detritus of their study as they go, the laptop is shoved haphazardly into his bag and Peter knows he can kiss his slides goodbye for now.

They earn a few stares as they depart the library, clutching one another as they snicker and shush. Once back in the hall Tony lets go of Peter's hand to clutch at his own chest and moans exaggeratedly, voice high and sultry and echoing off the empty hall.

“Oh _yes_ ,” Tony brings his free hand to his own throat, chest heaving. “Mister Buchanan, right there.”

“Don’t,” Peter shoves at him lightly, laughing along, “you’re going to make me throw up.”

“Oh, _Natalia_ , I love it when you talk dirty to me --”

Peter shoves him at him gently, laughing despite himself.

“Oh, no,” he says mournfully, a sudden realisation creeping upon him. “I can’t ever sit there again, now I know where all the stains have come from.”

“Prude,” Tony tugs him along to what is slowly becoming a familiar beeline to the area where Tony goes to smoke.

“I’m not a prude,” he protests, “I just didn’t realise I’d been eating lunch on come patches instead of like, I don’t know, cream sauce.”

He knows the mistake he’s made as soon as it’s left his mouth and Tony is smirking at him.

They brave the seeping cold and round the corner to what Peter’s come to internally dub as Tony’s hideout, far from prying the eyes of the faculty and always within eight feet of similar delinquent company; kids smoking cigarettes or poorly rolled joints. No one looks at Peter strangely, like he shouldn’t be there, even if he isn’t partaking.

He doesn’t realise they’ve been holding hands until Tony lets go to light his cigarette. Discreetly, he wipes his sweaty palm on his jeans.

“Friday cried when you left yesterday,” Tony turns his head to exhale the smoke away from Peter. “Yowled like a baby.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, Jarvis too. It was pathetic.”

Peter nods. “And what did you do while they were consoling themselves?”

“Played Super Smash with Peggy and drank cider.”

“They let you have cider?”

“Nah, I sneaked it.”

“And there was no yowling from you in my absence?”

Sprawled lazily against the brick wall, Tony relaxes against it, leaning his head on a patch of obscene graffiti. “Only when I’d had a few too many.”

“The noise you must have made.”

Tony snorts, flicking ash onto the ground. “Yes. Friday and Tony, world tour beginning next summer.”

“No Jarvis?”

“You know he’s tone-deaf. You got plans tonight?”

“Ned’s coming over, and homework. Why?”

Tony shakes his head. “Just wondering if you were going to take advantage of having full use of both hands.” He makes a lewd gesture that has Peter rolling his eyes.

“I’ll be sure to send you an update,” he says drily.

“By all means. I’ll wait longingly for your text.”

The bell rings then, signalling the end of their free period.

“I gotta get to class,” he clutches his backpack on his shoulder, even when Tony makes no move to hurry. He's not trying to prolong the moment by standing there, staring at the ground and shuffling his feet, waiting for Tony to reply, except that he is.

Tony doesn't keep him waiting long, taking another long drag of his cigarette before putting it out against the brick wall and pocketing the stubb. 

“Hey, Pete.”

“Yeah?” Peter looks up.

“Come here.”

At Tony’s beckon he approaches him warily, close enough that Tony’s free hand darts out to grip Peter’s wrist, pulling him closer. Before he can query him, Tony leans in and presses a sweet peck to Peter's cheek.

Heat rushes up over his cheeks and his stomach turns inside out.

“Well, then,” Peter clears his throat. “Thank you.”

“Get outta here,” Tony shoos him as kids begin to file out of the building. “Go on, get lost. I can’t be seen associating with you, I’ll never live down the embarrassment.”

Quick as lightning, Peter leans in to press a reciprocal kiss to Tony’s own cheek, and then makes a tactical retreat, face still burning.

He’s halfway back to the building before something occurs to him.

“Don’t forget to save my slides!”

Tony flips him off.

“Fuck your slides!”

Just barely, he refrains from the silly half-wave his hand wants to revert to and instead nods, hurrying to get into the building, away from the cold - away from --

So busy is he looking back at Tony as the other boy offers another smoker his lighter that Peter doesn’t notice the traffic, colliding heavily into Rogers, stood stonily in the arch of the open entrance. Steve animates upon impact, grips his arms to steady each other as Peter apologizes for his absent mindedness.

He nods his thanks to his captain, disregards the stiffness of his gaze, and hurries to his next class.

His cheek tingles all morning.

\----

In the afternoon he shares a class with Natasha.

Taking the vacant seat beside her, he is unable to stop the grin taking over his face as he recalls the free period. Feeling gleeful and a bit cheeky, he dumps his backpack on the floor and rocks on the seats back legs.

Natasha, who had been filing her nails to a sharp-tip, pauses mid-motion.

“Why are you smiling,” she says, gripping the nail file.

“No reason.”

“Stop it. You’re giving me weird vibes.”

“You and MJ are a lot alike, you know?”

Chair back on all fours he retrieves his notebook and pens, a smile still on his lips. It’s so nice to have a one-up on her every now and then. She knows everything. This is a rare moment for him.

“Did you get laid or something?” she whispers, leaning in towards him. She gestures over his face in a circle. “Is that what all this is about?

“Oh no, not me,” he simpers. “At school, you mean?”

“I mean did you fuck Stark over your romantic turkey getaway?”

In response he just smiles widely in her direction and drinks in her confusion. She’s a bit coarse with him by the time the period has finished but when he suggests she work her frustration out he knows that she knows that he knows.

He’s gonna get her some mac and cheese this Friday as a congratulatory gift. It’s their thing now.

It’s been a strange day. A strange week, a strange month. It feels a little bit like his life has experienced a seismic shift without him really realizing it. Things aren’t, and can’t be the same again. Because he knows what it feels like to hold Tony’s hand. That even if they weren’t colliding at breakneck speeds into one another’s life, their lives are still inextricably intertwined.

They’ve been six degrees apart this entire time.

And Peter knows, now, too much about Tony. And Tony knows too much about him. And, somehow, the more they unspool around each other the less abrasion there is.

And Tony doesn’t mind being kissed by Peter.

And Peter really wouldn’t mind if the next kiss would be, y’know, on the mouth.

It’s several leaps beyond whatever it was that he felt for Thor. Or Liz. It’s -

It’s only been a few weeks. Peter supposes he should feel a bit stupid, because there is no ‘them’.

And if he hasn’t misread the room, and if he could be brave enough, there could be.

\----

Ned comes over that night for the first time in a long while. Since things began to go belly up with football and school and Tony. Longer than Peter would like to admit.

They used to be inseparable. Best friends. They have a secret handshake. Peter doesn’t have that with anyone else. And by that, he means that almost no one knows him better than Ned. Peter practically followed him to that fancy, uppity high school just so they wouldn’t be apart.

And then he accidentally engineered a social life that delivered exactly that.

They sit on his floor, pizza slices cradled on napkins on their laps, diligently attempting to construct a seven-thousand piece Millennium Falcon that Ned got for his birthday a couple of months back.

They’d tried to set up weekends together to complete it - it was their thing - like that one Christmas when Neds’ parents, and Ben and May had coordinated to get them a Lego Stormtrooper and Boba Fett helmet as matching gifts. Peter still had the Boba Fett set on his shelf. Those are some of his best childhood memories.

He knows he hasn’t been the greatest friend lately, between football and schoolwork and - well, everything else starting with May and ending with Tony. So this is what it’s come to, working within curfew on a Monday night, fitting his best friend in on a calender entry. That’s all on Peter.

“How’s Betty,” he asks, hoping it to be an adequate olive branch.

“We broke up,” Ned shrugs.

Oh. Crap.

Peter coughs.

“Shit, dude. Sorry. How- how is your sister?”

“She’s okay.”

“And your parents?”

Ned sighs.

“Getting divorced.”

“What - really?” Peter drops the piece he was holding, horrified.

“No,” Ned shakes his head, picking up the piece and placing it upon the laser, “just checking if you were paying attention.”

“I’m paying attention,” he states, hopefully not defensively.

“Relax,” Ned grins easily. “I’m just messing with you, Pete.”

Peter hesitates. “I know I’ve been a bit absent lately. I’ve been a shitty friend.”

“Nah dude, you’re fine. You’re busy.”

“I shouldn’t be so busy that I didn’t even know you and Betty broke up.”

Ned lifts his shoulders again, toying with a crust, breaking it in half. His nonchalance would be more convincing were he not deliberately avoiding Peter’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” Peter offers sincerely. “I’ve been the worst. It’s not okay.”

“I know. We’re cool.”

“I’ll do better, alright? And hey, that new Nolan movie is coming out next week. We should go, just you and me.”

Ned finally looks up at him then, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips, and like that, Peter knows he’s been forgiven, deserving or otherwise. He reaches his hand out for their handshake which Peter is all too happy to reciprocate. 

It really has been too damn long that they’ve done this.

The next couple of hours are spent talking about schoolwork and their families, Peter skirts around what’s going on with May, mostly because he doesn’t actually know what’s going on with May and she’s in the next room over, so he's not quite willing to raise it just yet. So he says she’s been fine, and that Thanksgiving was great. 

It’s not a total lie.

“I heard you spent it with Tony Stark,” Ned leans in to whisper, glancing around Peter’s bedroom as if Tony might be hiding in Peter’s closet by means of mention. “ _Tony Stark_!” he hisses, slapping Peter’s knee. “What the hell?”

Peter, a bit helpless at the accusation, because it’s not exactly untrue, shrugs and shuffles away from the slapping. “I don’t know, dude. It wasn't like planned or anything. He just showed up.”

“How does he just _show up_ at your aunt’s house?”

“Tony knows Ed and Margaret too. Small world, right?”

“Why wasn’t he with his parents?”

Peter pauses at that, knows that's not his information to share, even with one of his oldest friends. “Not sure,” he lies, mentally crossing his fingers. “I didn’t ask. Maybe they were out of town.”

“Did he try and set the lake house on fire and walk around naked?”

“What?” Peter frowns. “No.”

“I heard he tried to shank you in your sleep.”

“What? Who told you that?”

“So it’s true?”

“No!”

“No he didn’t try to kill you in your sleep, or no he didn’t walk around naked?”

Peter grabs a stray Lego block and lobs it at his head. “Both. The hell?”

Peter’s phone buzzes against his thigh as Ned fields another wild piece of speculation, but he doesn’t really hear it when he opens the message. It’s from Tony. Of course it is.

The message contains a picture of Tony’s laptop. Peter’s treasured slides are on the screen, but they look a little odd. Different. Upon closer inspection, he notes that the slides are festooned with cartoon penises in an obscene garland around the text.

A caption below reads: _Nearly finished. Happy now, princess?_

There are so many dicks. Some of them are happily ejaculating.

 _Thrilled, thank you_ , he types back, staring again the crude dicks, not sure if he’s willing to keep them in or not. _I really like all the dicks. Nice touch._

 _Dicks usually like a nice touch_ , Tony texts back.

Peter snorts and shakes his head at Neds curious stare. He types, n _ow they will know we are definitely gay married. Because of all the dicks. Thanks tho_ _, I know you’re allergic to hard work._

Tony texts back instantly, _consider it part of my marital duties._

For a moment, he briefly feels bold enough to suggestively ask what other duties might that involve, but he stills, when something in the photo catches his eye.

On the bottom left corner the camera has managed to capture the hand that isn’t holding his phone, resting lightly upon Tony’s knee. It’s only a sliver, but Peter can recognise that he’s wearing a very familiar hoodie.

A sudden heat zings up from his gut fast and abrupt, knocking Peter and his world view askew. Suddenly all he can remember is the feeling of Tony’s thumb petting his lips, weird and wonderful all at once. And then, Tony’s full, dry lips against his cheek that same afternoon.

“Everything okay?”

“What?” Peter blinks, eyes refocusing. Ned is looking at him oddly.

“You look like you just burped and farted at the same time.”

“I - ” he shakes his head, waving his phone. “It’s just ...”

“Tony Stark?”

He hesitates for a moment before nodding, a little disturbed that his Tony Stark face is being compared to a flatulence face. 

“Tony Stark,” he confirms.

“You gotta tell me what that’s all about.”

He hums, thinking of the picture, of all of it. He thinks of asking Ned what it means when a boy you like sends you dick-dangled slides and kisses you on the cheek and holds your hand but isn’t really your friend. By all measures, he thinks he knows, but wants to ask. To be sure.

Ned would be mortified so Peter doesn’t say anything. For the sake of his own pride, too.

He puts his phone away and pays attention to his friend.

“When I figure it out I’ll let you know. Anyway, best of three for the last slice of pizza?”

And then, at Ned’s competitive grin, the world righted itself again. 

\----

Peter thinks of the time over the weekend when Tony had picked up Friday one evening while the adults were drinking outside. He’d laid her pliant, slinky body over his shoulder, gripped her back legs and pointed her kitty butt towards Peter.

“ _Butt-cannon_!” Tony had yelled theatrically, darting furtively around the room as if he were a soldier avoiding gunfire, making explosion noises with his mouth, Friday hanging onto his shoulders for dear life. “ _Fire in the hole_!”

Replaying the memory in his head, he can’t pinpoint the moment when Tony stopped being annoying and started to seem charming. Winsome.

Well, he never stopped being completely annoying. He still exists to push Peter’s buttons like a toddler that knocks over building blocks just for the chaos of it. It's just that the annoyance doesn’t lead directly down the road to anger anymore. It dissolves and diffuses down several paths; irateness, good-humour and -

Admittedly, just a soupçon of affection.

Mostly, he can’t forget the weight of Tony’s knee pressing against his on the dock, how reassuring his hand felt on the small of his back, how close his lips were to his and how badly every cell in his body then wanted to know what it would feel like, how a kiss with Tony would culminate after all this time of cat and mouse.

He wanted to kiss Tony yesterday. To press his whole body against his.

Is it so bad to want if there’s a statistically significant likelihood that he is wanted in return?

\----

His first morning back at training is, in no better terms, brutal and relentless.

As if to make up for lost time Danvers drives him hard. So hard it feels like despite only missing a few weeks, it feels as if it’s his first day of football training all over again. By the end his thighs quiver like jelly and his chest burns as he tries to heave in enough breath so that his lungs no longer feel like an eighth of their size.

The team welcomes his return with half-hugs, ass slaps and typical banter, much in the same dirty-minded, masturbatory vein that Tony had alluded to the previous day.

He takes it all in stride, glad that he got cleared in time for this match because the team could use all hands on deck, if he’s completely honest.

Aldrige were something that the people might call _a big fucking deal_. In terms of inter-school sports they were on top, the cream of the crop.

They were the team to beat. And so rarely were they ever beat. 

Peter, in his short-lived football career, has played against them only once. Once was enough to have left a lasting impression. Across the team there had been four sprains, a broken pinkie finger, and six concussions.

They’re going to get fucking obliterated. Again.

What had he been _thinking_ inviting Tony to watch this debacle? He was going to get pummelled. He was going to get his ass kicked. Again. The only saving grace was at least they weren’t going to get pummelled on home ground.

Still, this was going to be so embarrassing.

With the way Danvers is driving them all into the ground, the entire team covered in mud, fresh from the deluge the night before, he’s not sure any of them quite believe this season will be any different. They weren’t exactly raking in the trophies to begin with.

Taking a few seconds to himself for a breather, hands on his knees, Peter glances up at the bleachers. There’s a few bored-looking students watching, as is usual, but there are two figures that have Peter doing a double-take to make sure he’s not seeing things.

Thor sits upon the bleachers, having missed their morning stretches, elbows perched upon his sturdy knees, watching the practise with interest. Tony’s not there, but that’s not unusual.

It’s remarkable that Tony is ever awake early enough to make it to practice, come to think of it.

Danvers blows her whistle again, a screech that splits the sky and orders nearly twenty boys into line, and then he doesn’t have time to think of anything other than how to avoid major injury this Thursday.

\----

Come lunchtime he’s feeling a little out of sorts.

Maybe it was the overwhelming amount of attention on him that morning, or maybe it’s the nervousness about the upcoming game and everything else that’s going on in his unwieldy clusterfuck that is his personal life.

Whatever it is, he’s in one of those sensitive, touchy moods and just wants to be alone for a bit to regroup.

The cafeteria makes him feel claustrophobic. So does the library. And being around a horde of people, even his friends, dials the feeling of discombobulation to an eleven. So he takes his slightly stale ham and cheese sandwich and wanders outside to find a secluded spot.

The sky is a miserable grey and the winds are sharp enough to make his eyes sting. Out here it oscillates from empty sites of serenity to bustling, crowded pockets of chaos. Raucous laughter, people playing music, yelling at each other, a pulsating blur of white noise. Peter scopes the area to find a happy medium, avoiding benches speckled with bird-shit and groups of rowdy boys horsing around.

Finally, he comes across a patch of concrete under the awning of an arts building, right across from the basketball courts. He sits, legs sprawled before him and retrieves his water bottle and sandwich from his bag and settles down for a lunchtime spent people watching.

To his far left there are a group of sophomore girls that Peter vaguely recognises and a group of seniors studying on a bench to his right.

In front of him, are the courts, occupied by a small, but enthusiastic group engaged in what appears to be a rather unscrupulous game of basketball.

And, _oh_ -

Isn’t that a happy coincidence. The untamed dark hair is unmistakable from this distance, as is the insouciant, cavalier disposition that only Tony could exude in such a measure.

From what he can see, the game is an absolute free-for-all. Peter can tell by the way Shuri takes Potts by the pony-tail to prevent her from possessing the ball and by the way Lang covers Rhodes eyes in a similar manoeuvre.

Peter unwraps the sandwich and watches Tony lazily dribble the basketball on the court, cocky as all shit. He’s too far away to hear what Tony says, but he can tell by the shit-eating grin that it’s some kind of childish taunt, one that would earn him a smack to the back of the head if he was within smacking distance.

For a while he just watches, snorting softly to himself when Lang shoves Tony into Shuri who hits the ball clean out of his hands. It's only when Shuri impressively scores that Peter remembers the food still suspended and uneaten in his hand.

It’s then as he goes to take a bite that Natasha takes a seat beside him, swiping his sandwich.

“ _Hey_ ,” he protests, swiping it back after she’s already taken a bite. “That’s my lunch.”

“Sorry,” she says after she swallows, not appearing remotely apologetic. “Wow, that is dry as hell. Don’t you put any tomato in your sandwich? Butter?”

“No, then the bread gets all soggy. And raw tomato is gross.”

“You’re gross.”

“No, _you’re_ gross,” he replies smartly.

Her attention is drawn by the sound of cheers over at the court and he doesn’t have to look at her to know what kind of conclusions she’s drawn as to why he’s out here. Conclusions he will defend as false and erroneous.

But Natasha is quiet after that. There is none of her usual teasing.

They sit together silently, watching the informal, scrappy match, informal, made more lively with laughter and dirty heckling. Peter can barely tell the teams apart, all of the players seemingly out for themselves, but after a while it appears like it’s Tony, Rhodes and Potts versus Shuri, Lang and Barton.

Tony’s hands look broad and capable spread around a basketball, but maybe that was his hormones talking.

“So, you and Bucky made up,” he says, watching Rhodes elbow Lang in the gut to take the ball from him, dribbling it to the ring and shooting it perfectly through the hoop. Peter doesn’t know anything about basketball. He doesn’t know who’s winning or if anyone is keeping score.

Nat hums non-committedly.

“I thought you were still mad at him.”

She lifts her shoulders half heartedly. He mimics the motion just to earn her baleful glare.

“I was.”

“And?”

Her gaze is out at the game, but her mouth twists. “And I don’t know,” she replies. “I missed him. I missed him more than I was mad at him. It’s stupid, right.”

“It’s not,” Peter replies, offering the unfinished half of his sandwich to her. “It’s not stupid. I’m happy if you’re happy.”

She knocks their shoulders together. “So,” she nods towards the court. “Did you two…?”

He shakes his head.

“But you wanted to.”

“I don’t really know what either of us want,” he answers honestly. “I mean, I think I have an idea, but. I’m not certain.”

Kissing is definitely on the table, that much is clear. But going any further makes him nervous and excited all at once. He's never done more than kissing with anybody.

And right then a tide uncertainty washes over him, knocking his expectations back. He has a sudden and uncomfortable daydream of giving Tony a blow job, while Tony makes a sour face and complains about Peter-germs and needing to wash his dick with scalding hot water. Maybe he would make Peter brush his teeth before and after and use hand sanitiser on his penis.

 _Can you use hand sanitiser on your penis_ , Peter wonders. Should you?

“Tony and I used to be best friends, you know.”

He pauses mid-chew and blinks away the vestiges of the mental image to fully comprehend this statement.

“What,” he says, mouth full. He swallows. “When?”

“Up until about middle school,” she finishes her half of the sandwich and leans back on her hands, peering out onto the court, a wistful expression on her face.

“How come you’re not friends now?”

“We just had different priorities I guess. Made friends with other people who didn’t gel together. I started dating Bucky and he started dating Potts and then suddenly,” she makes an airy motion with her hand. “We just stopped talking.”

“He dated Potts?”

As he says it, he looks over to the court at the same time Tony notices him. The other boy stills, eyes widening comically before a grin breaks out on his face. Without his permission, Peter feels his lips stretching to mirror the same goofy smile. He thinks about waving or something, but he’s suspended in the moment, caught in a spiders web.

Or, he is, until Potts throws the basketball at Tony’s head and tells him to get back in the game.

Peter bites down on his smile, looks down at his hands when Tony jogs off.

“They were on and off again all throughout middle school,” Natasha supplies.

He clears his throat, schooling his expression into nonchalance, willing his fingers to stop twisting together. “Do… do you think they’ll be back on again?”

She’s silent beside him and Peter realizes too late that it’s because her mouth is twisted her mouth into a haughty line of disapproval, as if Peter were a dog who had just peed on the carpet.

“She and Rhodes have been dating for like two years, so I would think not.”

“Oh. Really?”

She nudges his ribs. “Really. And I think Tony has his eyes set on someone else, don’t you think?”

Peter looks up again to see Tony score a goal or a point or whatever it’s called in basketball, the ball leaving his hands and slipping up and through the hoop like thread going through the eye of a needle. When his friends cheer Tony turns, just briefly, towards Peter, eyes meeting before the ball gets taken back by their opposition.

“Maybe,” Peter concedes, thinking of cheek kisses and dipping fries in milkshakes.

\----

After school he’s heading to the south building for his robotics class when he spots Tony, sitting alone, perched on one of the outdoor tables, his feet planted on the sitting bench beneath. His signature headphones are secured over his ears, a cigarette pressed between his lips, fingers flying deftly over his phone screen.

Peter pauses. He doesn’t really have time for a detour. Definitely not one as distracting as Tony, and yet his feet are already dragging him over, like a moth to a flame.

“Well well, if it isn’t Farty Parker, my goodness,” Tony says upon noticing Peter’s approach, sliding his headphones down to cradle the nape of his neck. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”

“If you call me that in front of other people I’m going to rip out your spine through your ass,” Peter warns, standing between Tony’s spread legs.

“Kinky. Sounds like I need a safeword.”

“Try ‘asshole’,” he suggests. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Nah. The muffin shop is closed,” Tony snuffs out the remainder of his cigarette.

“The what is what?”

His hands come to rest on Peter’s waist, thumbs stroking his hips, eyes soft. “You haven’t ever seen that movie? The one with the chick from _Tangled_ and the dude from _Home Alone_?”

“Are you speaking English?”

“Oh my god,” he huffs. “You haven’t seen _Saved!_. You know, where the main girl is all like, super religious and she says,” he draws in a dramatic breath, putting on a trembling voice as if he were a sickly Victorian maiden, “‘ _shit, fuck, goddamn_ ’ to the big Jesus sign?”

Peter squints.

“Come on,” Tony tries. “The best movie from 2004?”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says seriously. “And the best movie from 2004 was _The Incredibles_.”

“You literally have no taste, why does this surprise me. That’s right, it doesn’t. I mean, look at you. I’m cringing, can you tell? This is my cringing face.”

“I don’t care.”

“Sure you don’t. Anyway, the garage is closed for the afternoon,” Tony explains, his hands hot and firm on Peter’s hips. “It’s their anniversary.”

“Oh. So... you just don’t want to go home?”

Peter winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, not meaning to phrase it quite so bluntly. Tony doesn’t look mad, however, eyes twinkling with amusement. Two weeks ago Tony probably would have decked him for saying that. How times change.

“I’m waiting for Rhodey to be done with his chess club, or glee club or whatever it is he does so we can hang out. What are _you_ doing here? Other than bothering me, of course.”

“Robotics,” Peter says. “I’m running late.”

The hands that have been squeezing his hips drop and Peter instantly, embarrassingly, misses the touch. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

“I was thinking we should do something on Thursday,” he blurts out, heart pounding when Tony gazes up with interest. He clarifies, “After the game. Milkshakes and whatever.”

“Milkshakes and whatever,” Tony repeats. “You mean fries?”

“I mean whatever,” he pokes him in the chest. “You on or you got somewhere to be?”

“I think I could shuffle around my busy schedule to accommodate your ‘whatever’,” Tony nods. “I’m nice like that. Ask anyone. They’ll say ‘ _ahh, yes, Tony the Altruistic_.”

“Yeah, you’re a real saint,” Peter raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure your benevolence is what you will be remembered for in this school. Not the time you keyed Fury’s car, or the time you pulled the fire alarm.”

Tony grins, eyes glazing over as he undoubtedly relives the memories of his very recent, and ongoing, miscreant youth.

“I gotta go,” Peter says, amused by the way Tony’s mouth twists into a frown when he shuffles back out of his grip. “So, milkshakes - yes or no?”

“Yes,” Tony says, already sliding his headphones back over his ears. “Okay. Go away now.”

“Goodbye, Tony the Asshole.”

“It’s altruistic, numbnuts.”

Peter doesn’t have to turn around to know that Tony’s giving him the finger behind his back. He smiles to himself all the same.

And then he spends the entire Robotics class distracted, realizing that they’ve never pre-emptively decided to eat together and that he’s essentially just asked Tony on a date.

And Tony said yes.

\----

On the way back home he kind of feels a little like he’s floating on air, like Glinda the Good Witch had swept him up on one of her shiny big bubbles and loop-de-looped him onto the train home, straight out from Robotics.

It’s inconceivable, is what it is. A date.

A date with Tony Stark.

Well.

Actually maybe it’s not a date. On second thought, maybe it’s just a friendly meal between two dudes who hold hands sometimes and kiss each other on the cheek. That’s totally a thing. It’s called a bromance.

But it might be a date. Peter vows to not call it that loud until - _unless_ \- Tony does.

Who is he kidding. Peter is a motormouth. He’s going to blab something like _first date_ mid-chew and it’s going to be very, very embarrassing if he’s misinterpreted the situation and then Tony probably won't want to hold his hand anymore. Then he’ll enter a polyamorous relationship with Potts and Rhodes and never speak to Peter again unless he’s screeching at him from the bleachers about how much he sucks.

Crap. Peter is going to screw this up.

At best, if it’s not a date, it would be a funny story to repeat later. Like, _ha ha, remember when I thought we were on a date but you just really like fries_.

“Don’t call it a date,” Peter mutters to himself, getting a pot of water on the stove and setting it to boil. He’s going to make spaghetti for dinner and he is not going to call it a date. “Not calling it a date,” he repeats.

“What aren’t you calling a date?” May asks from behind him. She’s setting her bag down on the table and unravelling a thick red scarf from her neck.

“Nothing,” he smiles. “Definitely nothing. How was work?”

“Fine,” she ruffles his hair as she passes. “What are we cooking? I’ll help.”

 _Please don’t_ , Peter prays. He’s never forgotten the time she tried to cook spaghetti and decided to add greek yoghurt for ‘creaminess’. Just thinking about it now makes him feel a little green around the gills.

“Spaghetti. And no, it’s okay, you sit down. Put your feet up.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” she replies, taking the dry pasta from the pantry and handing it to him. Oh lord. She’s passed him angel hair and he doesn’t have the heart to correct her. He was going to ask her to pass him the tinned tomatoes but maybe he’ll just do it himself.

While he’s at it he fills a glass with water and passes it to May who is sat at the dining table, idly folding a sweater from the mountain of laundry. “Here.”

“Thanks. Hey, question.”

“Yeah?”

“When’s your date?”

“Thursday,” he comments idly, salting the water, wincing when he realizes what he’s said. “I mean, it’s not a date,” he backtracks. “I don’t think it is. It might be.”

He salts the boiling water before adding the pasta to it, wishing the ground would swallow him whole. It’s what he deserves.

May sets down the folded sweater on her lap, looking interested. “Who’s your date with?”

“You _know_ who with,” he fixes her a dry stare. “And it’s not a date. Probably.”

“I like Tony, he’s a nice kid,” she says a little smugly, resuming her folding. “Why wouldn’t it be a date? Tony likes you. You like him.”

He shrugs, not denying it. “I mean, we agreed to go out but neither of us called it a date. Explicitly.”

“Do you need to call it a date for it to be a date?”

“Do I look like an expert in dating? Maybe it’s just something as friends.”

“Maybe it’s not.”

“Well, maybe it is. And you really think Tony is nice?”

“I mean,” she hesitates to find the right words, mid sock-furl, “he’s rough around the edges, sure, but he’s sweet. He likes you so I know he has good taste. Where are you going?”

“Out for dinner after the game. Diner, probably.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like a date to me.”

“Maybe,” he admits, adding the tinned tomatoes to a saucepan. “Maybe not.”

“Ben was a lot like that, when we were younger,” she says. When Peter turns, she has a fond smile on her face. “A bit wild. A bit of a bad boy.”

“Yeah?” Peter asks, interested. She doesn’t often open up too much about Ben, not usually out of necessity.

“Oh, he grew out of it of course, but he was a troublemaker when I met him,” she laughs. “He had the worst potty mouth I’ve ever heard. My parents were _horrified_.”

Peter can’t help but smile too. “I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, the stories I could tell you, bubs. He was a gentle person underneath, but let it never be said that the bad boys don’t have the best stories.”

Peter hasn’t been close to Tony for long, but he thinks he has already amassed a fair amount of good Tony stories. Stories he thinks he will remember for months and years to come. Ones that makes him bite his lip and fondly think, _oh, Tony_.

Tony was full of scandalous and ridiculous stories, as much as he was full of shit, so it was hard to tell where truth and embellishment diverged, and more than once had Peter heard a weary _oh, Tony_ from his friends, teachers and even himself.

During dinner May talks more about a young Ben, the things they would get up to, how he’d earned her parents' trust by being the perfect gentleman where it counted. Adhering to her curfew, opening doors for her, enduring gruelling family dinners.

“Next time we see your aunt Margaret you should watch their wedding video. Ben gave the dirtiest, sweetest speech at their reception. ”

She looks so happy as she recounts the memories, helping Peter with the dishes. Peter’s not sure he’s ever seen her this happy speaking about Ben since before he died.

He doesn’t think he will ever not feel guilty about it. But she seems so content that he can’t find it within him to pay too much mind to his own remorse, that's for him to carry and for her to never worry about.

“Did you know it’s Ed’s and Margaret's anniversary today?”

She nods. “We should make an effort to see them more often, huh. Thanksgiving was nice.”

He echoes the sentiment. They discuss getting together for winter holidays and it feels a little bit like some of the fragments of his life are coming back together again.

It’s nice, is what it is.

\----

After dinner he does his homework well into the night and works a little on his English essay. It’s not due until next Friday, but he’d feel better if he was ahead of schedule.

But despite the long day he isn’t tired. It’s nearing midnight and his brain is still racing a mile a minute, oscillating between thoughts like, _I wonder if we have enough eggs for an omelet in the morning_ , which naturally leads to thinking _omelette du fromage_ , and then also _how old are the bell peppers in the fridge_ and _I wonder what Tony’s finger would have tasted like if I’d been courageous enough to suck on it._

It’s terrible.

He’s very bored. But May’s asleep on the couch so he can’t watch TV and his dinky old laptop is busted so his options are kind of limited. He wonders if Tony is awake but doesn’t want to seem, you know. Eager.

 _What is the time in Sweden_ , he types into his phone for something to do because thinking about omelettes made him think of cheese, which made him think of swiss cheese, therefore Switzerland, which he always confused with Sweden as a kid. His phone tells him they’re five hours ahead of him.

 _Etymology of the word ‘zygote’_ , he types in.

_Bleachers next album, why do chinchillas roll in dust, cheap giant squirtle funko price_

He groans. Damn his meds and damn his garbage circadian rhythm, he curses, knuckling his eyes.

 _Cliffside, Malibu_ , he types, thinking of Tony again and what he said about his mom and if he’ll visit her over Christmas, Peter is just so very close to approaching his wits end, tempted to throw on his sneakers and go running until his body overrides his brain and relents to fatigue.

 _Luxury addiction treatment, Cliffside Malibu_ , the search reads.

Peter blinks, swiftly amending the search to say: Cliffside, Malibu, suburb.

 _Reimagine recovery_ , the slogan boasts.

The air in the room curdles.

Peter puts his phone down, stomach sinking.

 _Oh, Tony_ , he thinks.

\----

People, in general, are hard to deal with. He’s awkward. Always has been. 

Not just like, social anxiety awkward, but like, _that weird kid_ awkward. There was a reason he didn’t have a lot of friends until high school. His idea of a good ice breaker is to discuss the breeding habits of wolf spiders or casually mention a baby could crawl through the blood vessel of a blue whale, amongst any other various natur related facts. 

Because who doesn’t like animals?

Yeah. He doubts he would have most of the friends that he has now were he not passably decent at football. He would have stayed in a happy little triad with Ned and MJ and been satisfied all the same. They knew he was weird and liked him before he got abs.

People he likes are even more difficult.

This thing with Tony, whatever it is, feels fragile. He doesn’t want to mess it up by blurting out facts about whales or things like _sorry I accidentally googled that your mom is in rehab_.

And maybe he didn’t sleep much last night because of the guilt and he kept remembering Tony’s face on the dock when they were talking about his mom.

He resolves to speak to Tony about it. And he knows by virtue of his awkwardness that he’s going to mess it up somehow.

But for now he’s in class and Tony is a problem for future Peter. 

School he can do. It’s rote. Easy.

Well. Except for today, it would seem.

He blinks, flipping the paperwork over to make sure, then flips it over again. There it is, in red marker that fades on the upwards curl of his grade.

He got a C.

Tired, and probably slightly delirious, he stares at the grade, and thinks this must be some kind of mistake. But it's all there, the teacher's commentary very politely outlining just how he’d screwed up.

_Arguments are not linked and lack coherency, poor grammar, void of proper annotation, word limit not met, expected better Mr Parker._

Which... is fine. He can handle one shitty mark. It doesn't mean anything against his overall score really, it wont. He has at least a year to make up for it and all he has to do is never screw up again. Simple as that. Totally achievable.

Idly, he wonders if he will slip to third or fourth position next year because of this one grade and if colleges offer scholarships to those who place in third or fourth and, if not, he wonders if he could ever work off a student loan with no available deposit.

Oh god, he’s never going to go to college.

Peter approaches the teachers desk after class has ended. His teacher, old and always harried-looking, peers up at him with a wary been-in-this-job-too-long expression.

“I expect this is about your grade, Mister Parker?”

“Yeah,” he tries a smile, passing over the paper. “I was having a bad week when,” he gestures to the paper. “Is there a way to make this grade up? Some extra curricular work I can do?”

“No,” his teacher replies, curt.

“But,” Peter hesitates, “this is going to affect my grade point average.”

“Mister Parker, if I gave extra credit to every kid with a below average grade I’d never get anything done. I’m sorry. You’ll just have to do better next time.”

“I’m not below average -”

“I’m sure you’re not,” his teacher offers again, mouth pinched, appearing genuinely contrite. “Unless you are suffering honest hardship I cannot offer you extra credit. It’s policy.”

Peter slumps, hope deflating out of him. Maybe he could mention that he’s a bit of a headcase and his personal life is in a revolving door of shambles. But he knows it’s not going to inspire much sympathy. Wisely, he opts to keep his big mouth shut and simply nods, accepts his outcome as he gathers up his bag and papers and leaves the room.

It’s fine. He can make it up.

He’s not thinking about enacting a _Teaching Mrs Tingle_ type of stunt. He’s not.

He bumps into Tony out in the hall, as he exits, too busy looking at the floor to watch where he’s going, emitting a sound akin to a distressed squeaky toy when he realises who he has walked into.

“Woah, there,” Tony grabs his hip to steady him. Peter flinches and immediately feels bad when Tony holds his hands up in surrender.

He apologises, leaning into Tony's space as kids scramble to their next class around them. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Christ, Parker, look at you,” Tony adjusts the strap of his backpack. “You look like you’re jonesing for something.”

“Huh?”

“You look like shit.”

“Oh,” Peter blinks, eyes aching with the effort to keep them open. “Right. Thanks.”

It takes him a moment too long to realise that Tony is looking at him strangely. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods, suddenly wanting to clear the air. “Actually, you got a minute?”

“I was heading to Bio,” Tony says, “but we can skip. Smoke?”

The easy offer to play hooky is just _so Tony_ that it immediately sets him at ease and thinks, maybe he won’t be so mad that Peter had inadvertently stumbled over some personal information.

“No, I can’t skip “ - not after his last grade - “I just gotta tell you something.”

“Let me guess,” Tony slouches against the wall. “You’re pregnant.”

“Funny.”

“You got someone pregnant, then.”

“No one is pregnant, Tony. I just want - ” he swallows, suddenly nervous, unsure of what he’s going to even say. The moment drags on and, in the end, Peter loses his nerve altogether. “I just wanted to say that if you have places you’d rather be on Christmas, you’re welcome at ours.”

Tony smiles wryly. 

“Well, that’s uncharacteristically charitable of you, Parker.”

“Please, I wouldn’t want you to have a high opinion of me,” he falls back into their regular routine easily. If Tony notices the misstep he doesn’t mention it. “May suggested it.”

It’s not even a lie. She did suggest it on the drive back from the lake house, all in a fret about Tony going back to his evidently unsavoury home.

“Well, if the love of my life said so, I’ll consider it. Tell her I adore her, most ardently.”

“You keep your hands to yourself, Mister Stark.”

Then, Tony reaches out to stroke Peter’s eyebrow, like he did in the lake house, like they weren’t in a crowded hallway where anyone could see them like this.

“There’s something wrong with your face,” Tony whispers, dropping his hand. “Look at that. I fixed it. Go me.”

“Too bad you can’t help yourself,” Peter whispers back, a lazy heat lipping up his spine at the touch. “You’re an incurable lech.”

“It’s a terrible affliction,” Tony agrees, a smirk spreading over his mouth as he steps back. ”Get to class then, nerd.”

Taking a deep breath, he borrows a moment to steel himself after Tony has left, in the opposite direction of the science labs, Peter notes, cursing himself a little extra for not saying what he really meant.

It’s as he’s scanning the hall that he notices Rogers staring at him by the lockers. Peter frowns. 

One is an incident, twice is a coincidence. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if there’s a third. One way to find out.

“Parker,” Steve nods.

“What’s up, Cap,” he adds the honorific as an afterthought. “You looking for me?”

Rogers smiles politely, squeezing Peter’s shoulder in the way that he always does, the way Peter thinks a nice old grandpa would do to a miscreant youth. “I just wanted to check in with you before the game tomorrow. You’re looking a bit...”

“I’m okay,” he smiles. “Just tired, dude. I slept real bad.”

“I don’t just mean today,” a crease appears between Rogers’ brow. “I know that you’ve got a lot going on. With your extracurriculars, your injury. And you’ve been seeing Stark - “

“What?” Peter wriggles a fraction, in an effort to extricate himself but the grip tightens. “I’m not seeing him. Apart from, y’know, visually.”

“Not judging, but that’s not what it looked like back there.”

“He’s just trying to push my buttons,” Peter explains. “It’s not - y’know. You know what he’s like.”

“If he’s causing you trouble -”

“He’s nothing, I can handle him,” he says, somewhat displaced, uncertain how they got here. “And believe it or not I have a life outside football and Tony Stark.”

His tone is heated and he knows it, but he can’t help the puff of his chest, the twist of his lips as it forms into a scowl. The respect he has for his captain is the only thing from shoving him and walking away.

He’s not an idiot. This has absolutely nothing to do with Peter and all to do with whatever stupid animosity there is between Tony and Steve.

“Well, you know where to find help if you need it,” Rogers offers with one last squeeze to Peter’s shoulder and for some reason that last condescending note has him more angry than anything else.

 _I can take care of myself_ , is what he means to say, but he’s never harboured quite the same hero-worship of Rogers than the rest of the team has.

“Why do you hate him so much?” he asks instead.

Rogers eyes widen, ever so slightly, before his expression schools itself back into strict neutrality. His hand leaves Peter's shoulder to cross his arms over his chest, jaw setting and Peter can tell that he’s gearing himself up for an excuse.

He doesn’t want to hear any justifications anymore. Not when he knows better.

“You know what,” Peter says, stepping towards the door, “I don’t care, it’s none of my business. Look, I gotta go to class,” he says, turning around, a tempest of uncertainty and sickening nerves overtaking his body.

The sick feeling amplifies when he turns and comes face-to-face with Tony, who had apparently doubled back for him.

And just heard everything.

“Thought I’d see if you needed backup,” Tony says evenly. “But it looks like you can handle anything.”

 _I can handle him_ , Peter had said. _He’s nothing_.

Crap. That must have sounded -- that's _not_ what he meant.

He opens his mouth to explain, but Tony just shoves his hands in his pocket and smiles. But it looks off, guarded, compounded by the distance he puts between them.

“Tony -”

“Get to class. I’ll text you later.”

Peter does. He’s late and his teacher is unimpressed and he feels like a gigantic asshole.

Fuck.

He should have just taken Tony’s offer to skip.

\----

By the time school lets out and a final after-school practice is completed, Peter feels pretty deflated.

The cloud-cluttered sky plunges the city into a twilight of dark, moody greys and violets, a storm threatens to spill overhead. It only drizzles though, for now. Not enough to warrant an umbrella, but enough to speckle his glasses and make his fingers slippery and chilled as he heads home.

The train is near bursting with the just-finished-work crowd, bodies pressed against his at all sides.

It’s rush hour. The noise is like a hundred different televisions all playing at once; people talking into their phones loudly to be heard over the hubbub, kids playing music, the nasally laughter of a group of friends who managed to get seats earlier, the screech of the subway itself.

Normally it doesn’t bother him. Right now, it’s too much. This city is too much. Everything is too much. 

His head is going to split open and all of the buzzing wasps in his brain are going to be set free and he’s deathly afraid that he will never be in control of the chaos once it’s out of him.

He tries to make himself as small as possible and wishes that he could crawl onto the roof of the carriage and lie upon the steel roof as it carries him through the city, tunnel by tunnel. He wishes he could weave through the buildings on a spiralling thread that is en route to home, like Tarzan with his vines, navigate the concrete jungle just like that.

Sometimes, he doesn’t love this city.

In lieu of foliage, he presses his tangled earphones to his ears and waits for it to be over, relieved and tense in equal measure with every stop. He nearly misses his station with how crowded the train is and how he needs to politely carve his way out of the smothering press of bodies, slipping through the closing doors just at the last minute before they trap him back in.

Head down, he races out of the subway, taking the stairs two steps at a time until he hits the streets. Every brush of a stranger's shoulders against his feels abrasive.

Then finally, home.

It’s like slipping into a hot bath when he slips into the apartment. Finally he allows his composure to crumple, shoulders slumping, mouth turning downwards. The quiet and the relative warmth of their apartment is a welcome relief.

He just needs a breather and not to think about Tony.

And probably a PRN.

Exhaustion sweeps through him like a freight train, and he sways slightly on the spot until he drags his body to the sofa and slumps over it, curling up without bothering to even toe off his shoes.

\----

Waking from a dream an indeterminate time later, Peter blinks at the darkened apartment, groggy as all hell. The sun is still setting, he observes, running his tongue over the fuzz on his teeth. He can’t have been asleep long. No longer than an hour, maybe two.

Shame, because he’s still so exhausted that he doesn’t notice that his glasses have slipped off his face and onto the floor while he was sleeping.

He notices it, however, when he goes to stand and hears a heart-stopping _crackle-snickk_ of glass splintering under his foot.

He crouches down and blindly feels around for his glasses, running his fingers over the shattered lenses.

“Why not,” Peter exhales through his nose.

Standing again he resigns himself to walking with his hands outstretched like a blind man until he can remember where the hell he left his contacts.

\----

Once he’s fumbled into the bathroom and popped in his contacts he’s able to assess the damage.

As he’d assumed, his glasses are unsalvageable.

Great.

The frame is snapped almost in half, hanging on by a fray of plastic. It’s nothing a little bit of Harry Potter-esque duct tape couldn’t remedy, but the lenses themselves are cracked beyond what any household goods could fix.

He tries them on, just in case. The world comes back to him like a nauseating Picasso before he swiftly rips them off again.

Which is just fantastic. Really fantastic. A terrific way to end out this sentient wailing dumpster-fire of a day, isn’t it.

He only has one good pair of contacts left and while he’s thankful they didn’t resort to disposables he has no idea where they’re going to get the money for a new pair of glasses. His eyes are crap so his script needs all sorts of adjustments and is expensive as all hell.

Dragging his feet back to the living room he slumps down on the sofa, missing the weight of his glasses on his nose, angry at himself for being so careless.

It’s not the first time he’s done this and he should know better. Especially when he knows that there are a stack of letters in the coffee table that feel as dire and dreadful as a loaded gun. 

The anger gnaws at him and he knows it’s not just about the glasses, or this entire day, his entire life is off kilter. And he has no way of controlling it.

Wishing he could set the stupid thing on fire he glares discontentedly at the stupid coffee table, wanting nothing more than to kick its stupid legs as if that might fix everything that’s going wrong.

He’s still staring at it, at the drawer he knows is full of unpaid bills when May walks in.

“Hey Pete,” She halts in the doorway, keys clutched in her delicate hands, taking stock of his tense posture. “How was school?”

“Great,” he lies. “How was your day?”

She pauses, keys clutched in her hand. Peter follows her eye-line to his shattered glasses resting on the coffee table. “What happened to your glasses?”

“Just me being a disaster,” he worries at his lip and stands. “Fell asleep and stepped on them. I’m going to need a new pair. I’m sorry.”

May drops her handbag on the kitchen counter and squeezes his shoulder as she passes, looking entirely unconcerned about the impending cost. “Oh my goodness, I nearly did that last week myself! I’ll make an appointment.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“No, don’t worry,” she insists. “Probably about time for a new pair anyway, right?”

Yes. But that’s not something he’s going to admit.

“How was work?” he asks instead, moving to prepare her the usual after-shift coffee. “You’re back late,” he says as it occurs to him, eyes darting over to the cat-shaped wall clock.

“Had an appointment,” May says, dumping her handbag on the kitchen counter before turning towards him. “You had dinner yet? I was thinking pizza.”

“Sure,” he says, already bringing up the app on his phone. But something seems off, though that's par for the course these days. It’s in the way she doesn’t hold eye contact for very long and her hands shake as she prepares the creamer and sugar for a coffee.

He doesn’t bring it up, certain now he wont get a straight answer even if he tries.

Turns out he doesn’t have to.

\----

“Hey, Pete,” May says, after the pizza is delivered. “You got a sec before you sneak off to your room?”

“Yeah, whats up?” he asks, licking tomato sauce from his thumb. The paper plate in his hand sags under the heat and grease of the pizza. One of the slices he’s taken slides inwards until the sides hit the meat of his thumb. It’s hot, he winces and sets the plate back onto the bench.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” she sits on the sofa and pats the seat beside her. ”Come on, sit with me.”

Her eyes are wet and her smile is shaky and instantly Peter knows.

He lowers himself to the sofa in sync with the drop of stomach.

Setting his food on the coffee table, Peter nods and places his hands in his lap, trying to exude patience as May struggles to find her words.

Eventually, she starts talking and he doesn’t touch his food again, forgets all about it.

\----

Later that he stumbles out of the living room, begging off that he needs to have a shower. He means to; getting as far as turning on the water, but his fingers are too clumsy to do much more than grasp the sink and stare at the rusting drain as his mind loops the last couple of hours on a brutal, unending repeat.

This is -- this is.

“Shit,” he whispers, stomach turning.

He’d asked and told everyone who would listen that he could handle it.“I think you know I’ve been a bit under the weather lately,” she’d said, twisting a napkin in her hands.

“Yeah,” he’d confirmed, mouth dry, knowing whatever is coming isn’t good.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Yeah, well, I’m worried anyway,” he’d said. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s worse than it sounds,” she’d sat up straighter, voice shaky. “Don’t be scared, okay?”

And then she’d laid it all out in ascending order - like it might help _him_ to process what was happening to her, like a damn Buzzfeed listicle.

_Back pain._

_Muscle spasms._

_Weakness._

_Loss of sensation in extremities._

_Spinal tumor._

_Surgery required._

“Surgery,” he’d repeated, unable to mask the fear in his voice. “That bad?”

“It’s benign,” she said. “It’s not going to spread.”

“If it's benign why do you need surgery,” he can’t hide the panic now, already festering away in his gut, mind on overdrive. He can’t lose her, he _can’t_.

And she reached over, gripped his fingers and said the tumor, while not cancerous, was pressing on her spine. It was giving her pain. She couldn’t feel much anymore. She kept burning herself on her coffee cup and it was only a matter of time before she feared she would injure herself permanently.

The secondary heartbreak was that she knew about it for a long time. Months. She was only telling him about it now because she needs a few days in the hospital after Christmas.

Peter thinks back to the time she cleaned her hands raw, not so long ago.

Trying for a smile, so she didn’t have to worry about him on top of everything else, he wondered if she can even feel his hands in hers. 

Staring listlessly at the sink he imagines her lying pale and vulnerable in a hospital bed, on a surgeon's table as they poke away at the part of her body that allows her to walk and feel and the thought of it strangles him and it’s too much.

“Fuck,” he says, eyes watering once he’s sequestered alone in the bathroom. He turns on the faucet too, and the combined sound almost drowns out the chaos in his head.

In his short lifetime he’s had a lot of ‘worst nights’ and this is fighting for the top spot.

He should have asked. He should have known.

She must have felt so _scared_.

It's that thought that drags him into a fleeting moment of despair. She’d attended appointments and scans without breathing a word of it to him, and he only knows about it now, because she can’t hide that she will be off her feet for a little while, or a long while. A while.

And, daft as he can be, it’s pretty damn hard to hide surgery from him.

So he ducks in for a quick shower and then puts on his damn big boy pants, heading back into the living room. They watch Scrubs together until midnight, both of them pretending to laugh at the funny parts, and when Peter can finally go to bed he takes an honest to god breath.

With heartache spreading in his chest like spores, he stares at the ceiling. Only then does he allow his chin to quiver.

“Goddamn.”

\----

Tony had sent him a text at some point through the night, sometime before Peter had dived down the rabbit-hole and googled the living hell out of her condition, the risks of surgery.

She tried so hard to assure him that it was safe, that everything was going to be fine.

It’s probably going to be fine. Right?

There are risks, says the internet, but May says the prognosis for her is very good. Just - _very good_ , Peter thinks, as if her chances of coming out of this unscathed are being shaken out of a Magic-8 Ball, gutted that the world has put her in this position at all.

He forgets about the text, right up until May falls asleep and he retreats into his bedroom.

It’s tellingly brief.

_may-mobile parts have arrived, bring it to the garage whenever_

A dark ache blooms under his sternum as he reads, like oil leaking into water.

Peter glances at the leather jacket still sitting folded upon his desk and hates himself just a little. He wants to text back something like, _sorry about your mom or mays sick, she’s sick, she’s sick, she’s sick_ and finds he can’t bring himself to type anything.

Tony has enough problems without Peter adding on his own on top of them.

Reality strikes him as hard and swift as a whip.

He stalks over to his desk and balls up the jacket, shoving it into his backpack. The ache spreads into the clench of his jaw, into his throat until it congeals. He swallows, but it doesn’t remove the lump.

He’ll give the jacket back tomorrow.

What the hell was he holding on for to begin with?

\----

He wakes up feeling more tired than he felt before falling asleep. His eyes sting, his body aches like he’d run a marathon instead of twisting and turning, and the heat of the shower does nothing to soothe any of it.

Contacts glide in and Peter blinks until they slide into place and he recognises his own miserable reflection.

Getting dressed is an exercise in mechanics, muscle memory. He’s almost glad that May is still asleep so he doesn’t have to pretend to stomach breakfast. Then he remembers at the last minute to grab a protein bar.

Because. Football.

That’s something that he’s supposed to be worried about.

May’s going to be fine. Yeah.

It all suddenly seems very unimportant, football. His aunt is asleep two rooms away, a goddamn tumor pressing on her spine, benign or not, and he’s supposed to care about high school football.

A ferocious sadness sweeps through his gut anew and he can only focus on remaining upright instead of sliding to the floor and burying his face into his knees.

He leaves a note on the kitchen table, telling May he loves her and that he would be home late.

He approaches his locker when he arrives at school, shuffling along as if he’s sleepwalking, feeling a flare of annoyance when his locker sticks, albeit surrenders to his pull not more than a moment later.

On his way to first period he passes by Tony’s locker, the boy in question slouches upon it, arms crossed over his chest, insouciant, as Rhodes leans close towards him, whispering low.

Hands moving before he can think, he unzips his bag and shoves the leather jacket at Tony.

Tony stares at the jacket for a long moment before tentatively accepting it, a frown pursing his lips.

“Pete, what’s --”

The way that Tony’s eyes have gone wide and guarded makes something twist in Peter’s gut, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to figure it out, anxiety looping through his entire body like an ouroboros.

“I gotta get to class,” he says, immediately annoyed at himself for how soft his voice still comes out around Tony. “I’m sorry.”

The following retreat isn’t tactical. It’s outright cowardly.

\----

During class his mind melts into a sickening kaleidoscope of memories that seam themselves together and reflect on one another, a blinding whorl of snapshots, a splintered view-finder that he can’t tear his mind away from.

May clutching his hands, squeezing a bit too tight. Ben, looking back at him from the driver's seat. Tony’s guarded look that morning, like Peter was a stranger.

Around and around it goes until Peter feels like he’s going to be sick. For a moment he wishes that none of the last few weeks hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t gone snooping. Like he and Tony didn't spend enough time together for Peter to believe that they could be something. Like everything was as dull and certain as it had ever been.

The stupid part is, is that Peter knows he’s overreacting. He knows that it could be worse, and that the only malignancy in all of this is in him. It could be cancerous, and spread all over May’s body, stage four, terminal. It’s not.

It is with near certainty that the worst to come out of all of this is that they have a very expensive hospital bill and that Tony hates him like he did before and Peter is freaking the fuck out over nothing.

And yet.

“ _Mr Parker_?”

“Present,” he mumbles, and instantly knows what mistake he’s made all over again when the teacher grumbles at him, utterly exasperated, probably having called him several times.

“Crap,” he swears, not bothering to lower his voice, well and he’s earned himself another detention.

Lucky that the bus doesn’t leave until five. Adding punctuality to his list of worries, Peter doesn’t even protest it this time.

\----

He doesn’t see Tony for the remainder of the day. Doesn’t see much of anyone, to be fair, outside of his classes.

He was too busy finding a new place to hide that isn’t the cum-encrusted bean bag section of the library that used to be his safe haven, and definitely where Tony might be. Read: everywhere.

In the end he pulled a full Cady Heron and ended up taking his lunch to the bathroom, eating it whilst sitting upon a closed toilet lid. It was pathetic.

Bucky keeps sending him worried looks on the ride over to Aldridge, brow creasing each time he looks over. He’s not sure why, he’s trying his best to appear unperturbed about everything and anything but maybe he looks as crap as he feels.

“You look like crap,” Bucky says. “You okay, chipmunk?”

“I’m coming down with something,” he says, and coughs for effect.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Bucky or anything. But if he says anything about his mood and May he’s probably gonna shed tears and he isn’t about to fall apart on a bus full of pumped up dudes who are about to have the shit kicked out of them.

Bucky, to his credit, doesn’t appear convinced, neither does he push any - and that’s why Peter loves him, the gentle giant. He huffs, throwing his arm around Peter’s shoulders and tugs him close. “You’re a little shit. I know you know that, Parker.”

Warmed by the gesture, Peter rests his cheek on his friends’ big, beefy bicep as the world speeds past them. It softens some of the sharpness inside him when Bucky laughs softly and doesn’t move away.

“That’s why we’re friends isn’t it? Birds of a feather.”

Bucky nods.

“Please don’t have sex on my bean bags anymore,” he whispers sadly into Bucky’s hoodie.

“What?”

He exhales wearily.

“Nothing.”

\----

The blinding stadium lights make the opposition look titans.

Their shadows crawl along the grass immeasurably tall, the breadth of their shoulders exaggerated by the bright bulbs overhead, like inverse renaissance paintings, prim, muscular young men, all hard lines and shades,

They command attention, stood in a straight line with military precision, arms linked in one long chain of burly, golem like young men. Their school anthem blasting from the speakers so loud that the noise becomes distorted. It’s jarring and a very effective tactic.

They’re gonna get their asses kicked. Peter is going to get another concussion, he knows it.

Crap.

He’s too nervous to look up at the stands. Out of the corner of his eye he can tell it’s packed to the rafters, the crowd decked in the opposing team’s colours, boisterous and already heckling.

They’re going to die.

“We’ve got this,” Rogers nods to their huddled team, nodding before inserting his mouthguard between his teeth. “We’re in this, together.”

Peter glances over at Bucky who is already staring back at him through the grill of his helmet with the same uncertainty.

The game begins and for all his previous disinterest, he feels more at home on the field at this moment as he ever has anywhere else. His lungs burn, feet pounding beneath him on the slippery soil as he runs. It’s truly the only time, especially now, that his focus narrows down to only one thing: playing.

After the first score, in favor of the opposition, Peter rests his hands on his knees and peers into the crowd on the bleachers, teeming with the opposing team's colors, a garish crash of yellow and brown.

That first quarter Peter is driven into the mud more often than he can count and one of their linebackers, Singh, is forced off field with a dislocated shoulder. It hasn't even been fifteen minutes and it’s absolute carnage.

These kids have to be on steroids. There is no other possible explanation.

Bucky springs past him with a poorly disguised limp. They meet eyes for just a moment and he can tell the sentiment is the same.

\----

Seconds before half-time is called, the ball spins in a furious torque towards the opposing goal, and Aldrige widens their winning margin. To the deafening roar of cheering, Peter lets his composure slip, resting his hands on his knees, desperately trying to draw breath, his entire body feeling like one gigantic bruise.

The effort to breathe is hampered somewhat with his nose bleeding profusely after being pummelled into the grass by a halfback. God, he thinks, wrenching his helmet off his head, it was like being slammed into by a sweaty, mouth-breathing comet.

He takes the rag offered by Danvers and presses it to his nose, head spinning.

“You good, Parker?” she yells over the clamour and hubbub, taking his chin between her fingers. “You get hit in the head? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Twelve,” he pants, head pounding.

“Real funny, wiseass,” she lets him go, tapping him on the chin. “Believe it or not I’m not supposed to encourage early onset brain damage.”

“The damage was already there, don’t worry,” he says, moving the rag away to test if he’s still bleeding, and yep, he is, there it goes, back up his nostril. He feels his nose with his free hand, relieved at least isn’t broken.

“I’d believe it,” she drawls. Suddenly she’s letting him glow to blow her whistle, ordering the team to close in as thunder rolls overhead. “Alright you mangy little shits, get in a circle! Listen up, this is what we’re going to do.”

While tipping his head back, cloth pressed to his nose to stem the bleeding, Peter makes the mistake of peering up at the stands.

Beyond the large, glittery signs that cheer on the home team is a familiar figure in the top row. Clad in the signature black leather jacket, he almost fades into the night were it not for the behind flood lights illuminating his disinterested, equanimous sprawl.

So he came after all.

Beside him is Rhodes, his posture equally indifferent to the proceedings. Despite his earlier claims neither of them are wearing supporting colours or sporting signs. He’s not sure whether he should be wary or relieved to see them

A strange feeling builds in his chest, along with all of the other messy emotions gathering residue in there, making it hard to breathe. But Danvers whistle sounds again, signalling her furious reproach and then he doesn’t have time to figure it out.

He looks away and re-joins his team.

Once he’s sure the bleeding has stopped he flings the rag to the side and listens attentively to Coach’s strategy, gazing with as much attention at the whiteboard.

Not much has changed for him, in terms of strategy apart from the resoundingly clear message of _work harder_ so he allows his attention to wander. Naturally, to the stands. He must be staring longer than he realises when Rogers yells his name.

“Get your head in the game, Parker!”

“That Stark?” McKenzie sounds beleaguered from beside him, shifting beside Peter to get a better look at the stands. “The fuck is he doing here?”

“Leave it,” Peter warns tiredly, his hackles raising. 

“What -- he gonna start turning up now that he’s bending over for you?”

“Don’t talk about him,” he turns to his team-mate, not at all in the mood. But the look on McKenzie’s face says he isn’t joking.

“Heard you two fucked all weekend,” he continues, prompting a round of tittering from his teammates as Peter’s face burns. “Kind of shitty, if you ask me. After what he did to Cap. At least you slapped him around some, looks like.”

A white-hot burst of fury explodes out of him.

He shoves McKenzie, gripping his jersey and snarling. “I _said_ don’t fucking talk about him.”

He hears Danvers yelling something but he can’t make out what she says over the blood rushing in his ears, the sounds of the crowd as McKenzie pushes him back, his face contorted in fury.

They grapple together before there are hands pushing them apart, Danvers between them, pissed off.

“That’s your first and last warning before I kick both of you out of the game,” she says. “Get on the field. Now!”

Peter stares directly at McKenzie, aware that the entire team is staring at them, and thinks fuck it, fuck everything and by the way McKenzies lips thin Peter knows that he’s received the silent message he’s trying to convey:

_that’s your first and your last warning_

\----

They lose the game. Spectacularly.

It wasn’t unexpected but the margin of loss is just downright embarrassing. Worse than the previous year. 

They were at a disadvantage to begin with, but after the scuffle with McKenzie the team's rhythm was entirely off and they never recovered. It’s by far one of their lowest scoring games and there are eight broken fingers and one dislocated shoulder across the team. 

What makes matters worse is that by the time the game has ended it’s pouring heavy, frigid sheets of rain onto the field and. They’re away from home base, they don’t have access to the showers.

Any sense of camaraderie they’d had earlier in the week disappeared in disgruntled groans and chattering teeth and McKenzie spitting in Peter’s direction while Danvers wasn’t looking.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that the _bus leaves without him_.

He can’t even be mad about it. The other day he’d told Danvers that he’d had a ride, when he’d assumed that he and Tony were doing their milkshakes and whatever after the game.

And he would have hopped on the bus, were he not feeling so sorry for himself, perched on the bench after their loss, mourning the fact that he’s a fucking idiot and the guy he’s maybe probably sorta into just witnessed him getting his ass beat.

So that leaves him where he is, clutching his backpack as he tries to figure out where the nearest train station is on his phone, screen wet, his fingers slippery and numb. He doesn’t even have his favorite hoodie because he gave it to Tony like an idiot and all he has is the stupid t-shirt he was wearing to school and he’s cold and shivering and, right, _a complete fucking idiot_.

Hugging his arms to his chest and periodically checking he’s making the right turns on his phone, he battles the rain and the whipping winds, cursing himself for not getting on the bus in time.

His spine curves as he hunches over himself to preserve warmth, and he’s kind of glad for once that he isn’t wearing his glasses because he wouldn’t be able to see shit whilst it’s raining this hard. He’d be stuck huddling under some shop waiting for an Uber he can’t afford and paying shit rates for some guy to take a wrong turn and cross the Queensboro. No thanks. Been there, done that.

It’s his attentiveness to his phone and his musings that means he doesn’t notice the car that follows slows gradually and follows alongside him. Not until the car stops at a green light while he’s waiting for pedestrian access and until Rhodes is winding down his passenger-seat window and calling his name.

He looks back, frowning when the headlights wash over his eyes.

It takes him a couple of seconds to recognise it. It’s the Firebird.

The passenger window is down as it crawls alongside him. Rhodes' arm braces the cold to beckon him inside, Tony’s bored countenance in the driver’s seat behind him.

“What,” Peter says dumbly, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Get in,” Rhodes drawls, dry as dust, gesturing to the backseat as the car stops adjacent to the sidewalk.

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice.

He slips into the back, dripping all over the leather interior. As soon as he’s buckled in the engine rumbles pleasantly and something is thrown in his face.

“Put it on,” Tony calls from the front. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Righting the material upside, it’s hard to mistake the texture of the leather jacket, smooth as he slips it over his shoulders, a little too large for his frame, but wonderfully warm nonetheless. His lips twist down when he smells Tony’s cologne, his heart twisting.

“I told you I’d drive you,” Tony chides from the front seat.

“Yeah,” Peter looks up and out the nearest window. “Thanks.”

The drive is quiet, the radio turned down low, save for the splatter of the rain, and Peter can’t help but think it’s for his benefit. Especially with the way that Tony keeps glancing at him in the rear-view mirror every so often. No one mentions the game.

Small mercies.

Nonetheless, something dark continues to spread in his chest and he can’t help but feel vulnerable, on display every time Tony looks at him through the mirror, lips pursed in concern. He sets his jaw and looks out the window to avoid meeting his eyes. What he would give to rewind time, back to the weekend when everything was sweet and wonderful and Peter could be ignorant for just a few more days.

The silence is painful, as are the looks Rhodes and Tony keep sending each other, the tension growing with every set of traffic lights.

It worsens, when they’re stopped at a red light. Hooking an arm around Rhode’s seat, Tony half turns to Peter, taking his eyes off the road.

“Hey, I’m just dropping Rhodey off first and then --”

Panic spiking up his spine, Peter slams his eyes shut and blurts out, “Can you please watch the road!”

When he opens his eyes again Tony is suspended in surprise, coming to himself quickly, turning back and firmly placing his hands on the wheel. “The light’s red,” he says.

“Please.”

“Uh, yeah,” he shares a look with Rhodes. “Sure.”

“Sorry, I -” he cuts himself off, looking down to his hands as the anxiety begins to recede, willing away the intrusive memories. He’s fucking this up already. “Sorry,” he says again.

“No, no,” Tony says, deliberately driving very slowly when the light flicks to green. “Road safety. Very important. Hey, honeybear,” he turns to Rhodes, “remember when your mom rear-ended a Lamborghini when she was taking us to camp that one time? That guy was so mad. I’ve never seen a face turn that shade of purple.”

Rhodes sighs. “Good times.”

Afterwards, the atmosphere within the car is palpably awkward. No one says anything at all and no one is ballsy enough to create further tension by changing the radio station so they’re stuck on the station that it landed on when Rhodes was fiddling with it when Peter had snapped earlier, some exclusively Mandarin speaking station.

They pull up to Rhode’s fancy brownstone to the soft murmurings of the radio that none of them understand.

Tony kills the engine and for a moment, nobody says anything.

“So…” Rhodes trails off.

Silence.

“Um, thanks for coming to the game,” Peter says, voice cracking. He cringes.

“Well, I can’t say it was a good one.”

“Yeah. Can’t say it was either.”

“I’ll walk you up,” Tony says to Rhodes after another awkward, unbearably silent moment, “so I can grab the, uh --?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll be back,” Tony throws back to Peter before he exits the car. “Stay here.”

And then, Peter is left alone with himself, his thoughts and the rain pounding like bullets all over the car.

\----

It’s five or so minutes into being terribly-blissfully alone that he starts to feel restless. It’s hard to follow his own thoughts, feeling as if his brain is short-circuiting, overloaded. 

This day. This week. Tumour, benign. When he tries to swallow past the lump in his throat his mouth feels corroded, rusty. The taste in his mouth is coppery. 

He barely refrains from burying his head in his hands, wondering how he got here in such a short amount of time, torn between being pleased and mortified that Tony went to the game, watched him get his ass kicked and picked him up from the street like a rat drowning in a sewer.

The seatbelt across his chest suddenly feels too constricting and while they’re parked he has no hesitation in unbuckling it, breathing just a little easier without it.

For long minutes he sits, stewed in the familiar smell of worn leather and Tony, grudgingly threading his arms through the leather jacket.

It’s comfortable. And warm.

Frankly, It’s the only thing keeping him together right now.

Tony returns back to the car a few minutes later, opening the front passenger’s door briefly to throw something at the footwell. Then, peculiarly, slams the door shut behind him and climbs into the backseat to sit besides Peter, running a hand through his wet hair.

“You’re parked illegally,” Peter says, a little poleaxed by Tony’s sudden closeness. “And you’re soaked,” he observes.

“It’s raining,” Tony nods.

“Yeah,” he says, as if maybe he’d missed that. He gestures to the jacket covering him. “Do you want your - ?”

Tony shakes his head, shuffling closer. “Nah, keep it on. Makes you look like James Dean.”

It should make Peter snort. James Dean he is not.

“Okay,” he swallows, instead.

Neither of them say anything for a while, idly seeking warmth from one another, as much as they can, pressed thigh to thigh, sharing what heat they can find in the crowded backseat as the rain beats loudly over the roof, splattering a wet death against the windows.

“You okay, Peter Parker?” Tony asks after a while, long enough for the water to stop dripping from his face. “Don’t answer that. Stupid question. You look - how should I say - like garbage. You’ve got dried blood in your nostril, by the way.”

“Oh,” he says, accepting a clean tissue that Tony has procured out of nowhere, wiping away at his nose until it comes back clear. 

“So?”

“I’m okay,” he says, offering a small smile. “Thanks for saving me from the rain and coming out to the game. Sorry it wasn’t very good.”

“Are you joking?” Tony snorts. “I got to see Rogers get taken down in the dirt like the sack of shit he is. I had a great time. Your ass looks amazing in that uniform, by the way.”

That makes Peters smile widen a little, but he quickly remembers the tension with McKenzie and how quickly the team fell apart in the second half, and the smile drops off his face completely.

Tony’s warm hand circles his wrist then, squeezing lightly. Without looking, he knows that Tony’s big eyes are looking at him searchingly, and Peter’s not sure he has the fortitude to resist giving into them.

It’s like the world has inverted and stayed the same all together, because this is Tony, the same guy who slapped his lunch tray once last year so it scattered to the floor and the same guy who made the assignment fun and treated his aunt kindly, who treated Peter kindly, who was just an angry kid going through things and trusted so few.

“Pete,” Tony says softly. “What’s wrong?”

“You sure you wanna hear it?”

“Fire away.”

“Uh, let’s see,” he ticks off his fingers. “May’s sick. She has a tumour on her spine. Also, you’re mad at me because I’m an asshole, I’m probably getting kicked off the football team, so there goes that scholarship avenue, and - oh! And I got a C on a big test, which is fine, seeing as I’ve killed my chances at getting into college anyway. And I broke my glasses.”

“Shit,” Tony mumbles, leaning his elbow up on the seat. “Sorry about May. I didn’t know.”

Peter clears his throat. His voice still cracks anyway.

“She only told me last night. They’ve told her it’s benign. But she’s in pain and -,” he breaks off, “- she can’t feel her fingers. She needs surgery.”

“Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

Peter shakes his head, looks down at his shaking hands, too warm and secure to blame it on the cold now. “Not your fault.”

Rain beats down over the car, filling the void while Tony appears to try to find his next words.

“I wish I could fix that that,” he says after a moment, voice soft, low. “I can’t. But I can tell you you’re a shoo-in for a scholarship, you don’t need football for that.”

“Couldn’t hurt. I need extracurriculars.”

“You’ll get it on academic merit alone, Parker. You’re... un-stupid.”

Peter huffs a laugh. “Did you just make up a word to avoid complimenting me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still mad at me?”

“I was never mad at you.”

Peter raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, I was for like a _second_ ,” Tony admits, holding up a finger. “But then I talked to Rhodey, and he was very rude to me. And then I didn’t like that you thought you had to give me my jacket back. Because that’s making a statement,” he punctuates this by tugging the lapels of the jacket around Peter. “And I would rather you use your big boy words for that.”

“You should be mad at me,” Peter whispers. “I didn’t mean -- I just wanted Steve to get off your back. I didn’t want him to interfere like he did with Bucky.”

“The guy is a serious basket case but that’s hardly on you.”

Peter shakes his head, renewed guilt making his stomach turn.

“It’s not just that. I -- I was thinking you might visit your mom or something over Christmas and so I looked up Cliffside. I thought it was like Beverly Hills or something. I wasn’t trying to pry or anything. I’m so sorry.”

Tony's fingers had paused slightly when Peter made his admission, but since his thumbs have resumed stroking the buttery soft material of the jacket, a feeble shield against the world, one that Peter all at once realizes used to be Tony’s armour. One he easily gave to Peter.

“It’s okay,” he says, quiet. “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about yesterday?”

Peter nods.

“I don’t mind that you know. I mean, I told you, in a roundabout way, right? And while you’re pretty awful, Princess Parker, and I do very much mean the _worst_ , I know it’s -- it’s safe. With you.”

“Yes,” he says, so very glad that Tony gets it. “I’m sorry about your mom.”

“She’s not dead,” he huffs. “And she’s better off there.”

“Still.”

Tony looks at him consideringly, in that way that he does right before he’s about to surprise Peter.

“You’ve been carrying a lot in your head these last couple of days, haven’t you.”

There it is.

Pressed tight against Tony, he feels cracked open, laid bare. Vulnerable.

“Yes,” he whispers. “She doesn’t deserve this. You don’t deserve this. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” Tony agrees. “But you can’t fix it right now, can you?”

Peter sets his jaw to avoid admitting how he’s drowning in his own helplessness. He settles for a simple shake of his head.

“You can’t change anything.”

“No,” he says.

“Best to take your mind off it then, right?” Tony tugs at the lapels, a fond quality to his smile. “I can see you ruminating. Makes your eyebrow go even spikier. It’s very distracting.”

“I’m not ruminating.”

“You are,” Tony bumps their shoulders together. “Hey can I tell you something? Might take your mind off things.”

“Sure.”

“It’s something... very embarrassing,” the other boy purses his lips. “It could - it could potentially ruin my reputation if you shared it.”

“Okay,” he says, both curious and cautious “I won’t say anything.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

Tony sighs as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders which concerns Peter not a small amount. “Last week when you texted me, remember the YouTube spiral?”

“Oh, yeah” he confirms, vaguely recalling their string of correspondence, wondering where on earth Tony could be leading.

Tony reaches out to grip Peter’s shoulders, his eyes earnest and a little bit shy. He takes a deep breath.

“I lied. I really was watching Say Yes to the Dress,” he says softly as his lips quirk upwards despite himself. “I fucking love that show. I’m one hundred percent addicted. It’s so good.”

Peter snorts loudly, unable to hold it back.

“Do you have a favorite location?”

“Lancashire,” Tony’s expression is dead serious even as he puts on an English accent. “Parker, I tell you, the dresses are just _exquisite_.”

Another snort rips from his nose and then he’s giggling, hand pressed to his mouth to unsuccessfully stifle his amusement.

Maybe it’s the way he punctuates that statement with a flamboyant chef's kiss that sets Peter off, giggles bursting from his chest unbidden, or Tony’s wide, teeth-baring grin, like he’s proud of himself. His laughter is renewed when his mind pictures Tony, sixteen, sitting all by himself in the dark, eating pie and watching women choose their bridal gowns. 

The mental image is _gold_.

Humiliatingly, his eyes start to prickle when his laughter has run out, the tenuous control he’s had over the darkness in his chest suddenly gone. His vision starts to blur and he turns his head to look out the window so Tony can’t see.

He must know, anyway, because after a moment of static-filled silence he shifts until their sides are pressed together, his voice is low and measured when he speaks.

“Peter.”

“We should get going, you’re going to get a ticket.” Peter says, aiming for normal but missing it by a mile when his voice hitches and a matching pair of tears slide down his cheeks. Embarrassed and heartsick, he futilely puts his hands over his face, as if that meant that Tony couldn’t see him.

Tony’s arm comes around his shoulders, pulling Peter into an embrace.

“Come here,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

Fuck it all to hell, Peter thinks, turning to him him, burying his face into Tony’s neck.

Hands clutching Tony’s shirt, he sniffles and takes deep steadying breaths, not crying, but just overcome. He’s too wrought out from the day to weep, he suspects that time will come later, but he does allow a few tears to be shed, to fall apart a little bit in the succour of Tony’s firm, sheltering embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after the feeling has passed, laughing a bit at himself in an attempt to alleviate the heavy mood. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing is your default status, I’m used to it,” Tony runs the back of his knuckles over Peter’s shoulder in a soothing manner.

Peter laughs lightly, allowing himself to be pet, hiding his face in Tony’s shoulder for just a little while longer.

He shifts in Tony’s hold a bit and sniffs, pulling away just slightly.

“...Did you shower today?” he asks, making a face.

“No,” Tony remarks, a hint of laughter in his voice, using the arm around Peter’s shoulder to hook his face closer into his armpit. “Get a good whiff, you little shit.”

Peter laughs, pushing at his shoulder.

 _I want to take care of you and laugh with you_ , he thinks, chest softening as their eyes catch with one another. The realisation makes him go quiet.

“Pete?”

Tony inches closer, if possible, until their faces are close, intimately so, like the other day.

“Tony,” he blinks the remaining wetness from his eyes, shuffling closer. “Do you know that you’re the worst?”

Tony smiles wryly, eyes soft with what Peter thinks is fondness. “Yes, dear.”

Peter sniffs again, voice shaking, winding his arms around Tony’s neck. “I mean you are a certified piece of shit and sometimes I am tempted to kick you directly in the balls because you wind me up on purpose. You do it on _purpose_.”

“And you like it,” Tony comments, pulling Peter closer. “That’s all on you, you little pervert.”

“I do not,” Peter frowns, running his fingers over the nape of Tony’s neck. “Wait. You know what? Actually, yeah. I do.”

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to -” Tony trails off, leaning in to press his lips to Peters in a chaste, dry kiss.

“Oh,” Peter mumbles against his mouth as he pulls back a little, stomach squirming with delight.

Tony presses their lips together again, harder, more insistent and that’s - _oh_.

He presses their lips together again, testing the full pout of Tony’s lips against his. He sucks lightly Tony’s bottom lip experimentally, gratified when Tony sighs contentedly. Peter understands that feeling, particularly when Tony’s fingers card his hair at the base of his skull, nails raking lightly against his scalp.

“That’s - huh.”

“Weird?” Tony mumbles against his lips.

Peter nods. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Do it again, to make sure.”

Peter meets his lips this time and it’s not weird, not at all.

They sink into one another, lips pressing together experimentally, tentatively. Once it’s clear that Peter isn’t going to get skittish Tony grows a little bit bolder, pressing him into the backseat. In a move that sends tingles down his spine Tony dips his chin, kissing Peter from below, sucking in his bottom lip between his own.

 _Oh_ , Peter thinks, gripping onto Tony tighter as his face grows warm. This is nice

They trade kisses, slowly deepening them and this should be weird, Peter thinks, but it’s intimate and foreign and home and at the same time, the feeling of Tony’s thumb stroking his cheek as they kiss.

They separate for breath, noses sliding together, hands on the other's face.

“How are you holding up with the cooties?”

“Coping,” Tony mumbles softly against his lips. “Only just.”

“Same,” he says. “I’m sorry I called you a certified piece of shit.”

“You also said I was the worst.”

“Oh,” Peter frowns. “I’m not apologising for that.”

Tony appears to consider this for a moment. “Fair enough,” he says, leaning in to kiss Peter again.

Peter responds by snaking an arm around Tony’s neck and kissing him again. Tony’s lips against his are soft and plush and part invitingly when Peter experimentally slips his tongue between them.

“Wait,” he whispers, pulling back a little. “You’re not just doing this to make me feel better, right?”

Tony balks, snorting grossly against Peter’s face. It disturbs him how much he doesn’t mind it.

“I’m not that nice. This is definitely all for me,” he replies before swooping in and kissing Peter again, soft and sweet.

\----

Peter has migrated to the front seat for the drive back home. Which is nice, because Tony links their fingers together over the gearstick. It’s also really nice when Tony parks outside the building and tugs Peter into another sweet kiss.

_Click clack_

Peter shifts back into his own seat, startled. “Do you hear that?”

“Uh, nope,” is all the response he gets before Tony is leaning in again. Peter frowns, holding a finger up to Tony’s lips to halt him. Tony exhales a warm gust against the digit.

Peter cocks out an ear and, underneath the heavy pitter-patter, he hears it again, the mechanical clicking noise.

_Snick-click_

The very same from the lake house.

That _fucker_.

He levels Tony an unimpressed stare. “What is that?”

“What’s what?” he responds weakly against Peter’s finger.

The nerve, Peter thinks, thinking he’d been hearing things all weekend. Tony wilts like a guilty dog when Peter shakes his head.

“Fine. Clearly the universe continues to aspire against me,” Tony relents with a groan.

Then Tony is leaning forward into the passenger seat to retrieve his backpack by Peter’s feet. He settles it upon the centre console where the noise grows louder.

He unzips the backpack fully and says grandly, “Let me introduce you to my idiot son.”

Peter's eyes grow wide, heart expanding.

“Oh, _Tony_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to apologise for how long this took. Thank you, to the approximately three people still reading this, for your patience and support x


End file.
